O Désespoir
by MissGabriellaXIII
Summary: After the destruction of the Opera, Madame Giry has a feeling that the Phantom is not as dead as others believe him...with the help of an old friend, she hauls him half dead from his lair and into a new life. But will he survive above the ground?
1. Chapter 1: A Cold and Dismal Place

_**A/N:**__** Well hello there, fellow Person Who Can't Get Enuff Erik, and welcome to the first chapter of my Very First Fanfic, "O Désespoir". The title has a double meaning - the first, more literal one is "Oh, Despair", and the second is "In Despair" as "O Désespoir" is a homophone of "Au Désespoir". I actually found this out by accident while flicking through my Larousse...(evil gloating laff) The story itself is sort of a sequel - well, more of a "What If Erik Didn't Die" fic - and it is loosely to do with the ALW version, though the Erik featured here is not a Gerik. The Erik in this fic is how I thought him to be when I first read the script, and isn't the Erik of the books/musical/movie in particular, though most aspects are based on them. Please review! Constructive criticism welcome.**_

_**I don't own or take credit for The Phantom of the Opera, and the characters ain't mine either...well, some of them are, but not the Leroux/ALW characters...now I'll shut up and let you carry on in peace.**_

* * *

For days, weeks, possibly even _months_ now, this cave had been plunged into darkness. The last flickering candle had long sputtered out in the humid darkness, taking with it all vestiges of light or hope. The candelabra stood tall and dark at their stations, their candles unlit. Obscurity claimed everything, smothering all hints of light or colour, and the place under the Opera House that had once been bright and golden now lay dark, sombre and dead. Not even a brave stagehand or other person from up above with a lantern would bother trying to pierce the blackness out of curiosity, for the lair was now visibly unfit for residence. How could anybody live in such darkness? It did not seem possible. This deterred all treasure-hunters and thrill-seekers, for the utter obscurity still held a strong sense of danger about it. The shadows in the abandoned lair were oppressive, threatening, and most outsiders were convinced that even the promise of whatever they sought was not worth the terrible sensation that they were trespassing in a place of the dead. The ghost was gone, they believed, but his former home was still to be respected and left alone - especially since it was so gloomy and inhospitable.

Despite the fact that the Opéra Populaire was in devastation, spirits were lifted by the knowledge that the notorious Phantom would trouble and torment no longer. To them, he was forever gone, dead, no more.

But in the heart and mind of a certain ballet mistress, he was most certainly not...

* * *

Madame Giry gripped the pole tightly as she inexpertly propelled the gondola forwards. She had found the boat lying on the stone floor of the passageway, out of the water. Obviously the last person to have moved it would have been the young Vicomte upon his arrival at the mouth of the passageway with Christine, since the boat was usually in the water, tied up and out of sight. This was a sure sign that its master had not used it. Perhaps this was because he was stranded in his lair, surrounded by the icy lake? No, she knew this was not the case. He had his dignity; if he had wanted to escape he would have built a new boat, or at least made a makeshift one to take him across the water. Doubtlessly he was still there in the darkness, unmoving, and she dreaded to think what state he would be in.

The pole slipped on the algae-covered ground, and Madame Giry gave a silent curse when she almost lost her footing. She was lacking in practice at this type of boating; she had rarely used this gondola and had little experience with it. However, she was a determined woman, and she knew she was drawing nearer to his lair from the distant sighing of the wind - the cavern his lair was in was shaped in such a way that the underground air made a particular sound when blowing through it. The phantom himself had told her this, musingly, when she had come to see him once many years ago. He had been barely twelve years old at the time - still a child, but noticing things that even she, an adult, would never have remarked. Incredibly perceptive for a child, he had been...with the mind of a genius, too. But what had become of him now? His wounds had been too deep for the ballet mistress to heal, and she now knew that they had deepened as he had gone from boy to man. They had deepened, then they had been torn open...and now he was left to die from them. If she had taken better care of him, would any of this have happened? Would Buquet and Piangi still be alive? Would the Opéra Populaire still be in full running order? Would Christine Daaé be getting happily married without the burden of the tortured Phantom on her mind?

But what was done was done, and there was nothing Madame Giry could do to change it. Poor boy...he deserved better than such a fate...but what had become of him now?

Abruptly, the low ceiling rose up, and she was cruising along in a larger passage. From the distinct note of the wind, the Phantom's lair was just ahead. Madame Giry had brought no less than four lanterns with her, as well as a tinder-box, for she did not like the idea of being lost underground in the darkness with only the blind fish and a heartbroken phantom for company.

The passage up ahead slowly became illuminated, as well as the heavy iron portcullis that blocked the entrance to the lair. Madame Giry brought the gondola to a stop, unable to continue. The portcullis barred her way, separating her from the blackness beyond. She squinted uselessly through the gloom, but to no avail; there was not a candle lit, not a single glimmer of light anywhere within. There was even no sound to betray the presence of a living person. Had her insticts been wrong, then? Was the Phantom truly gone for evermore?

The gondola's prow gently knocked into the moist iron of the portcullis, and the lantern perched precariously on it toppled into the water with an unbearably loud splash, its light extinguishing immediately. Madame Giry crouched forwards quickly, managing just in time to close her fingers around the ring at the top of the lantern as it sank, and she pulled it out of the water, regretfully placing it in the bottom of the boat -

Suddenly, a deep, resonant voice, with so much menacing authority it could have been the voice of a vengeful angel, intoned all around her:

'_Le Fantôme est mort. Allez-vous-en!_' The Phantom is dead. Go away!

Hearing such a commanding, harsh voice so close to her made her limbs tense with shock and fear. The primal terror that came with being in blinding darkness with the promise of danger all around threatened to seize her, but Madame Giry took a deep breath, putting her hand over her heart to still its rapid beating. He was only throwing his voice again to instil fear, and he could not scare her with that any longer.

Gathering herself bravely up to her full height, she called out defiantly: 'Erik ..._je sais que tu es encore là - c'est inutile de te cacher ainsi!_' I know you are still there - it is useless to hide yourself like this!

Her voice, disappointingly high and tremulous compared to the glorious thunder of the other, echoed around the large stone chamber beyond. There was a long pause, and then a low, venomous voice replied to her.

'_Je n'ai rien a vous dire, madame_. _Laissez-moi mourir en paix_.' I have nothing to say to you, madame. Leave me to die in peace.

Madame Giry frowned, the lines on her face deepening with concern as she gazed blindly into the darkness.

'Erik, I still have faith in you. I am willing to forget all that has happened and to help you.'

'Faith in a mere ghost, madame?' the voice hissed mockingly. She ignored his taunting, concentrating instead on locating the secret lever that could open the portcullis from the outside. It was very well-hidden indeed, and if she had not known Erik and his clever method of hiding things in plain sight she would never have found it at all. Once she had found it, she tugged on it sharply. Cogs and wheels began to turn inside the walls, and the huge iron portcullis began to rise. She allowed herself a brief smile of triumph before punting forwards, ducking her head as she passed under the rising gateway.

* * *

The cavern was dark, but the light from the three remaining lanterns in the gondola helped Madame Giry navigate towards the bank. She breathed out a sigh of relief as the boat's underside scraped the slope, and stepped out lightly, placing the pole in the boat and picking up one of her lanterns.

'Erik?'

As she had expected, there was no response when she used his true name. _So be it_, she thought. _I shall have to find him myself_.

Raising her lantern high, she shuffled along the floor, her footsteps rustling the sheets of music that lay strewn everywhere as if thrown by a child in a rage. A candelabrum lay on the ground, and she stood it up again, pausing to light its candles with her own lantern. Without more light, she knew she would never find him, and she also feared for a wild moment that he would creep up behind her in the darkness and choke the life from her. However, she knew that even though the man had almost no limits to his impulsiveness when in a rage, he would never raise a hand against her. He never harmed those who had helped him, and now he was in need of help once more.

Madame Giry made her way from candelabrum to candelabrum, lighting each until the lair was bathed in a golden glow that was dim but far better than the blackness that had preceded it. As the lair slowly became visible, the damage to it also became noticeable. Sheet music lay everywhere, torn, crumpled or simply thrown down, and beautiful works of art were ripped to pieces. It was only when Madame Giry's gaze fell upon the wreckage of the once-grand organ that she realised it was not Erik who had caused this devastation. The angry mob that had pursued him down here on that fateful night had utterly destroyed this place of art and music, spoiled its beauty and ruined its secrets. Only God knew how Erik had managed to stay hidden from them while they had torn to pieces his lair - but of course, Erik was a master when it came to hiding and disappearing. Madame Giry picked her way over battered works of art that rivalled even the masterpieces of great artists but were ruined beyond repair. It saddened her to see his sanctuary in such a state, but she also felt anxious about the state that the man himself was in. Wherever was he hiding?

She held the lantern high. The whole lair was now visible, all of the detritus and wreckage making it look even more abandoned than ever. Madame Giry stood very still, looking around for any sign of movement other than the flickering of the candles -

She stiffened. Somewhere to her left came the sound of faint wheezing; he was here! Pinpointing the exact location, she strode forwards, only to have something snap loudly beneath her foot. Looking down sharply, she covered her mouth with a hand as she saw she had stepped on the skeleton of some small unfortunate animal that still retained a few scraps of gristle on its crushed, pale ribcage. She realised with horror, by the way that the spine was broken and the fur and flesh stripped away, that this must have been a previous meal of Erik's. What had he become? Was he really so weakened and isolated that he was forced to prey on the rats that invaded his home?

Grimacing with disgust, Madame Giry paused to listen. Yes, she could hear the terrible wheezing sound nearby, in the darkness ahead...

'Erik?' she called again.

Silence. Only harsh, painful breathing. Then, from the shadows before her:

'_Am I never to be granted peace_?'

Her heart jolted in her chest - his voice, which had been so harsh but thunderous and brassy a moment ago, was now weak and hoarse. His last traces of energy seemed to have been spent through attempting to warn her away. Madame Giry hurriedly came forwards, holding her lantern up. The light from the candle illuminated a sorry heap of damp, torn clothing and shivering, skeletally thin limbs lying on the floor. She gave a small gasp at the sight, then hesitantly knelt down beside him, hand over her heart.

Erik, the former Phantom of the Opera, was curled up on the cold floor where he lay like a broken puppet, his eyes closed and still swollen from the tears of black misery he had so recently shed. His face had been laid bare to the world, the paper-thin flesh even more cadaverous than ever, his coal-black locks tangled and unkempt. His skin had acquired a yellowish-white tinge, and he had all the semblance of a corpse. Madame Giry would have believed him dead herself had she not noticed the unsteady, feeble heaving of his thin chest as he breathed.

Tentatively, still as wary of him as ever, she leant closer, holding her breath against the smell of death. His trembling lips were stained brown and his hollow cheeks smeared with what looked horribly like the blood of the small rodent he had killed. Damp covered his deathly-pale skin, making it gleam clammily in the light.

'Erik?' she whispered again. Yes, she could definitely hear the wheezing sound he was making.

He gave her no answer. Was he still conscious? It was hard to tell. She watched his fearsome face for a clue, her eyes lingering pityingly on the gaping black hole that was his nose. He must have taken off the mask to terrorize anyone who found him when he was dead. How like Erik that was, indeed...bitter and sarcastic to the end.

And the end was obviously very, very near. His breathing was laboured but faint, his skin was a ghastly corpse-like colour, and his arm felt icy cold and damp when she touched it -

In a brusque movement, his arm sprang to life and jerked away from her touch as if burnt, his dark eyebrows drawing together briefly. This movement seemed to disturb the death-like peace that had descended upon him, and his breath began to rattle horribly in his throat.

'Erik, you are very, very ill,' Madame Giry told him, her face lined with concern. 'I cannot leave you here to die - it would torment me for the rest of my life were I to abandon you in this cold underground cavern.'

One purple-tinged eyelid opened fractionally, and a sliver of an amber eye glinted from beneath the dark lashes.

'So, out of guilt you return to me...' he mocked hoarsely, his voice still strong but the way it cracked betraying his feeble state. Madame Giry frowned at him drily.

'I see you have retained your sense of humour even though you have not retained your health,' she commented sharply. 'Death will solve nothing, Erik.' When he did not respond, she narrowed her eyes. 'For how long precisely have you been lying down in this way?'

She heard his sigh.

'A day...a week...a month...time does not behave in the same way when one does not pay attention to it,' he replied idly, still with his eyes firmly closed.

'Your shirt is damp and barely covers you,' Madame Giry remarked sternly, seeing the way the material clung to his bony, lean frame. 'Erik, this is terribly dangerous for your health, and you are foolish indeed to neglect yourself so. If you would only -'

Two blazing, fever-brightened amber eyes opened abruptly and glared at her with a seething, furious gaze. Erik bared his teeth, incensed. 'You dare come and disrupt my final sleep with talk of _my_ foolishness? Can I not be left in peace to die as I was supposed to long ago? I do not belong here - this is no place for me! If everybody has told me all through my life that I am hell-spawn and belong in the nether world with the Devil, why should I not accept this and make my way out at last?'

Madame Giry sighed. He had truly been hurt far too deeply - the way he had been shunned all of his life had taken its irreversible toll on him. He never truly saw the beauty in himself...and nor did those who tortured him so.

'Erik, you must see sense. What others believe is not necessarily true - those who speak of you in such a way have not seen past your face.'

Unexpectedly, the fevered man took great offence at this. His long fingers curled into fists, his knuckles whitening. 'Damn you! Damn you and your sickening pity!' he snarled in sudden rage. 'If it is not revulsion, it is _pity_...the screams and curses I can stand, but being _pitied_...!' He tried to continue his rant, but was impaired by the sudden bout of coughing that overtook him. Madame Giry watched silently as the coughing fit shook his malnourished, wraith-like frame, until he fell quiet and still, his breath wheezing more than ever.

'Listen to me,' she said calmly, in the tone she used when dealing with hysterical young ballerinas. 'You need to be cared for, since you are so uninclined to do so yourself. For this you must cooperate. I know a very trustworthy doctor -'

Her supplication was interrupted by a series of odd, harsh sounds from the prone man. With a start she realised he was laughing, his body trembling with mirth.

'Erik, please -'

'_Have you no sense?_' Erik cried, eyes wide and staring suddenly in pure outrage. 'A _doctor_? No mortal man would ever agree to tend to such a hideous creature as I!' She pursed her lips as he continued to rant and rave, until he was forced to stop lest another bout of coughing take over him.

'Docteur Bayard has seen you before on one occasion,' she explained. Seeing the look of disbelief and shock on his face, she continued: 'You were but a child then. The diseases and infections that riddled you from the travelling fair had brought you near to death. I was in despair, so I called upon my old acquaintance to help. He did not flinch even when your face was uncovered; it is thanks to him that you recovered from the diseases.'

Erik stared into middle distance for a while, then his feverish, over-bright golden eyes became suspicious.

'Why do I not recall any of this?'

'You were unconscious for almost an entire week,' Madame Giry said quietly, recalling the despair she had felt upon seeing the sick young boy covered in rashes and fainting constantly. She had felt so useless, so desperate, since nobody knew about him but her...and then Bayard had come and saved the boy's life, not even commenting upon his face. The man was a saint...any lesser being would have shied away from Erik in revulsion, but he had done no such thing. Now the question was, could he save Erik once more?

* * *

Two days later, Victor Bayard was under the Opera house, bending over an unconscious Erik. Madame Giry hovered anxiously by, wringing her lace handkerchief.

'I tried to make him see reason, but he would not listen to me,' she told the Docteur as he pressed his forefingers to the pulsing artery in the prone man's white throat. 'I was forced to use the drug you gave me to calm him.'

Docteur Bayard nodded, looking calm and serious with his large moustache and kindly blue eyes as he inspected Erik. The unperturbed, tranquil way in which he dealt with Erik never failed to amaze Madame Giry; the sight of the taut, papery skin of his face with the web of blue veins beneath it and the black crevice of his nose was enough to make even her shiver inwardly, despite the fact that she had seen that awful sight countless times. She watched as Bayard carefully measured Erik's pulse, and listened to his breathing. After a while, he looked up at her.

'His condition is quite grave,' he said. 'He is dehydrated and half-starved; on top of it all, he has a slight fever and a minor chest infection brought on from the cold. It is very fortunate indeed that you found him when you did - a couple of days more and he would be dead.' This was not hard to believe: Erik already had the seeming of a man long dead, inside as well as out.

'However,' continued Docteur Bayard, 'he cannot remain here. This environment is too damp and cold for him to recover in; he needs warmth and light.' He glanced at the unconscious Phantom, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. 'I suppose in a way his current unconsciousness is a blessing - he will not be able to struggle as we take him away from here.'

Madame Giry's face creased in worry. 'But whatever shall become of him if he cannot stay here? He has nowhere else to go -'

'I can provide shelter for him in my own home,' reassured Docteur Bayard. 'There is a spare bedroom I have in which he can stay.'

'Oh, however can I thank you, Victor?' sighed Madame Giry, feeling weak with relief, but Docteur Bayard only smiled and said: 'I am merely doing my job, Antoinette...besides, you are in need of a favour.'

Madame Giry smiled back. 'He only needs to stay with you until he is well - I can arrange for a small apartment to be bought for his use, as he has told me where he hides his extensive earnings.'

'Very well,' said Docteur Bayard. Both of them looked down as Erik gave a small moan, his eyes opening. His dilated pupils focused on the doctor and his eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl. The doctor reached out a hand, supposedly to calm him, but this only enraged him further.

'Do not touch me, monsieur!' he hissed, his voice strained, ribs rippling under his skin as he gasped for breath. Then he seemed to calm down, and a faraway look came onto his awful face. 'It makes no difference,' he said cryptically, sounding tired, and then gave a small, soft laugh. 'No, it makes no difference at all. I shall be free of this world soon, even though it shall only be to roast in the flames of the Hell that awaits me...I daresay it shall be considerably warmer than this cold cavern...hah!''

'He is delirious,' Docteur Bayard remarked gravely.

'Erik, please do not speak in such a way...you are not dying, you are simply fevered,' Madame Giry entreated the recumberant man. 'We shall help you...'

'Help...?' repeated Erik absently, his eyes rolling back as he reached the brink of unconsciousness then came back again.

'Yes, monsieur,' replied Bayard, then he looked up at Madame Giry. 'Would you be so kind as to hold the lantern? I shall bear his weight.' She obliged as the Docteur leaned down and hooked Erik's limp arm around his neck. The man struggled feebly against him, teeth clenched, but was unable to put up any form of resistance. Soon he had sunk back into a semi-conscious state, hardly able to keep his head up. His chest heaved with laboured breaths, eyes barely visible beneath the hooded lids that covered them, and he was obviously in desperate need of help. Slowly, awkwardly, Docteur Bayard began to walk forwards, supporting Erik, whose feet were dragging uselessly on the ground as his head lolled forwards.

'No...' groaned Erik. 'No, you foolish man, I cannot leave...no...'

'Do you need help?' asked Madame Giry anxiously, pausing. Docteur Bayard shook his head.

'No, no - he is light enough, despite his substantial height...' he replied truthfully, for even though Erik was a very tall man compared to Bayard, he was quite a bit underweight. This was not surprising, considering the weeks of starvation and self-neglect he had gone through.

Soon they reached the gondola, and a now unconscious Erik was placed inside it, while Bayard took the pole and climbed in beside him. Madame Giry was about to take the Docteur's politely proferred hand when she suddenly remembered.

'Oh - please wait just a moment, monsieur...I have forgotten something!'

Picking up her skirts and swiftly going back, she cast about, searching for the essential item Erik would need if he was to leave this place. It took her several minutes to find the hard white leather mask, but at last she saw it, lying on the floor where it had been thrown. Miraculously, it was unharmed, and she picked it up, running back to the boat with it in her hands. Upon seeing the mask, Docteur Bayard looked grave but passed no comment, understanding that not all were as tolerant as he. After courteously helping Madame Giry into the boat, he pushed off with the pole, feeling above all thankful that the gondola was sturdy enough for the three of them.


	2. Chapter 2: The Safety of Shadows

_**A/N:**__** I hope you like it so far...please, please review and tell me what you think! A huge, huge thank-you to GhostOfMusic for being the very first to review out of 53 cold, callous people who visited my fic without leaving behind a word or two about what they thought. You really made my day, GhostOfMusic! I think I should have warned people this will not be a fluffy, idealistic fanfic...oh, well. Anyway, here is chapter 2 of my un-fluffy, bitter-reality fic...**_

Erik was sinking down, down, down, into the black depths of a bottomless ocean. He sank slowly, gently, his limbs so heavy he could not find the will to move them. But whyever would he wish to move them, anyway? He was experiencing such comforting peace...As he drifted through the murky darkness, he wondered if he had at last died. Had the God who had long forsaken him finally answered his last, hopeless prayer?

Vaguely surprised that he was still conscious of himself, he let himself float...

Something cold was suddenly pressed against his forehead, abruptly jerking him from the blissful darkness. Erik gasped and opened his eyes, his entire body jumping. At first he thought he was still underground, but then he realised with a jolt that the air was too warm, and he was not lying on cold rock, but on a _bed _in a dark bedroom. Crisp white sheets covered him, and beneath his head was a pillow. Shocked, his mind reeling, he sat up and was horrified to discover that _somebody was in the room with him_.

A gentleman with oval eyeglasses and a thick, large moustache was sitting at his bedside, holding a dripping flannel above a small tin basin of water. A beastial snarl issued from Erik's lips, and he immediately drew himself up against the wall, as far from the man as possible, startled and defensive. He regarded the man with fierce distrust, still trying to work out where he was and what this person was doing here. Instinctively, his hand leapt up to his face, covering his ghastly features with his long, spidery fingers.

The other man was watching Erik calmly...perhaps the darkness of the room had stopped him from seeing the deformity of his face? Erik stared back, still flattened against the wall with his long body curled up, his amber eyes wide and calculating between his fingers. A memory swam blearily through his mind...abruptly he recognised the man before him as the doctor Giry had spoken of, the foolish clot who had dragged him from his lair against his will. He glared at him appraisingly. The man seemed wealthy in years, so he could not pose much of a physical threat...but Erik was ill and thin, too weak to fight if attacked. Perhaps if he could find a weapon he would stand more of a chance against -

Erik unexpectedly lost his dark train of thought as the man smiled gently at him.

'Please calm yourself, monsieur - you are safe here,' he said, making Erik's defensive stance falter from sheer surprise. Noticing this, the man continued: 'I'm afraid I did not get the chance to properly introduce myself, so let me do so now: I am the Docteur Victor Bayard. I believe we have met once before, but you may not remember as you were still a child. Since you are ill and in grievous need of medical help, I have taken the liberty of bringing you to my own home. I hope you do not mind...'

Erik blinked, taken aback. So this was indeed the Docteur Bayard he had been told of? He had never expected the man to treat him as...as an _equal_...as a normal person...

Still wary, he slowly let down his guard and came away from the wall. Bayard smiled at him encouragingly.

'There is really no reason to be so guarded, monsieur - you must rest, as it is quite late,' he said, then cocked his head to one side slightly. 'But I suppose you must be hungry by now. I shall bring you some broth directly; you need to regain your strength in order to fight your fever.'

As soon as the man was gone, Erik slumped back down onto the bed, sweating, then smiled in the safety of the shadows. He could see beyond Bayard's smile; the doctor was merely attempting to put him at ease, for Erik could perceive a certain grimness that lay in the undertones of his voice and in the depths of his eyes. This knowledge did not bother him in the slightest way - he had never expected to be accepted without question, and he was even content somehow that he had seen through the doctor's kind looks. It would have troubled him to no end had Docteur Bayard shown genuine liking and compassion. However, the man was just doing his job, and that was that.

His limbs felt very light all of a sudden, his skin very hot. Putting a hand to his own forehead, he noticed he had been dressed in a loose dark grey shirt that was not his own. His sharp cheekbones flushed blotchily with bemusement and outrage at the thought of a stranger dressing him, and he tugged the sheets up to his neck.

* * *

Downstairs, Bayard methodically heated water and chopped vegetables in his kitchen, his thoughts on the strange guest upstairs. The man's face was truly quite a harrowing sight...Giry had never said whether this was the result of a terrible childhood accident or the mere cruelty of fate. The doctor's bushy eyebrows knitted at the memory of the missing nose, the scowling mouth, the painfully thin, almost transculent skin that stretched over the blue net of veins...it had looked so much worse by flickering candlelight, with every dip and peak thrown into sharp relief...

He stirred the broth vigorously, adding a sprinkling of pepper that would help fight the chill lodged in Erik's bones. The sight of that horrendous face reminded Bayard of the many times he had been called to tend to poor souls who had suffered grave accidents; he remembered arriving at a workshop one bleak day to treat some sorry fool who had fallen into the machinery and consequently had his face mangled in the works. The employee had lost his nose and one eye, and his skin had been badly torn until only a thin layer of it remained. Many of his co-workers had been unable to look at the man from sheer horror, and although Bayard surmounted his own fearful disgust enough to tend to him, the man had died several minutes later. Bayard could recall the sight of the corpse as it grew pale, and found that Erik reminded him awfully of it. However, Bayard had always managed to maintain an air of detached professionalism when it came to gruesome injuries, and the unnerving sight of Erik's face was no exception. Now ladling the broth into a bowl, the doctor pondered the man's life. How had he managed to live with such a disfigurement? He knew that Erik previously lived under the Opera house - Giry had led Bayard down to his underground home only yesterday to fetch him, after all - and he also knew that he wore a mask to hide the deformity. What a trying existence the man must have...

Bayard only vaguely remembered tending to Erik as a boy. The sole memories that had remained in his mind all these years were the sight of the child's emaciated, skull-like face, the sickly smell of sweat and illness, and the sound of the then-young Madame Giry's desperate voice saying tearfully: '_Je ne sais plus quoi faire_..._aidez-le, je vous en prie, monsieur_!' I do not know what to do...help him, I beg you, monsieur! Bayard sighed, extracting a small silver spoon from the cutlery drawer. If he had helped Erik once, surely he could do so a second time...Three days passed, one after the other. For Docteur Bayard, they passed in a relatively normal way, since he still went to work, having other patients that also needed his care. For Erik, however, they passed in a dream-like haze. Time had lost all sense to him, but it did not matter - all he had the strength to do was to eat and sleep, as all those sleepless years were being slowly but surely paid for. Now he could sense that he was gradually beginning to recover; he had stopped pissing blood and his breathing was no longer harsh and wheezy. However, what he did not know and did not wish to think about was what he would do once fully recovered. His life no longer had any sense, and he had no wish to stay in the room in Bayard's house any longer than necessary. His only choice would be to cease being a phantom and to become a man. But how? _How_? He would never recover from his deformity, and what man could live with such a hideous face? Erik clawed at his revolting features bitterly until he drew blood, feeling his stomach twist with the agony of being struck with such a curse. Where was his mask? He felt so unbearably naked without its comforting security. At least with it on he did not have to hide his emotions himself...

Raising himself up into a sitting position, he cast around the room. Surely it could not have been left in his lair where he had thrown it all those weeks ago...that meddling old woman Giry _must_ have thought to -

Aha!

Erik's lips curved into a tight, rare smile as he caught sight of it, right next to him on his bedside table. He picked it up reverently, lovingly, running his abnormally long, pale fingers over the familiar hard white leather. It was a small comfort, which he was grateful for as he put it on, adjusting it so that it fitted his face perfectly, showing only his mouth and chin. With the mask on, he could easily hide the nose that was not there, and it covered all of his deformity. Touching the surface of it and caressing the length of the mask's own nose, he smiled to himself once more. He felt almost...whole.

Almost.

Considerably less anxious, and slightly more confident, Erik let himself lie back down and fall asleep, mask securely in place.

* * *

Bayard put his bulging bag on the sideboard, after making sure he had packed all of his necessary equipment. The Tomas family's youngest daughter was ill again, and needed tending to, which was why he was being called out so late. He was about to put on his coat when he remembered the strange gentleman upstairs. He would need to tell him that he would be away...

He swiftly walked up the stairs, and into the guest bedroom. The man was lying on his side, his eyes closed but fluttering open immediately when Bayard entered the room. The mask's permanent, rather off-putting frown hid the rest of his features. _So_, thought Bayard,_ he has found it_.

'Monsieur, there is a little girl I must tend to urgently, so I shall be leaving the house,' he informed Erik. 'Please be sure not to agitate yourself in my absence; I shall only be gone a short while.'

'Good evening, then, Docteur,' said Erik almost dismissively, and closed his eyes. Docteur Bayard left him. His patient seemed to be a very odd man indeed. However, this was wholly understandable - from what his old friend Giry had told him, he had experienced many hardships that had left deep scars in his heart. Several days ago when she had let him take Erik away, she had warned Bayard further of the man's unpredictible and often tempestuous dispositions. She had told him that his emotions were terribly hard to discern, and that Bayard must be wary of Erik's temper. Fortunately, Bayard had not witnessed Erik's volatile moods, and he was glad of it, too. Hopefully the man would not attempt to escape while he was out working...

* * *

The house was dark and silent, the fire in the grate only a heap of glowing embers. The only inhabitant of the house was asleep, and everything was still.

Then, the door opened, and a figure made its way into the house, closing the door behind it and dropping a large suitcase. The figure gave a small, feminine sigh, stretched, and carried the heavy cases to the foot of the stairs before relighting the fire. Soon the flames were flickering and dancing in the grate, the firelight illuminating the tired face of a young woman dressed in travelling clothes. She paused a while to warm her hands, and then pulled off her thick, warm cloak, hanging it on the brass coathook by the door. It surprised her to see the house dark and empty, but she knew it was probably because the doctor had been called out to see some patient urgently. She would just have to surprise him, then, she thought with a smile. Walking over to her suitcase, her boots rapping softly on the wooden floorboards, she contemplated heaving it upstairs herself, then immediately dismissed the idea. It had taken the coachman, herself _and_ a helpful gentleman who had been passing by to get the trunk down from the carriage's roof. Oh, how glad she was to be home...

Deciding to change into some more comfortable clothes - and remove that damned uncomfortable corset - she made her way upstairs after lighting a candle and placing it in its bronze holder. She tugged her long dark hair free of its modest plait, running her fingers through it to straighten the waves in it, then walked across the landing and into her bedroom. Her bed was made and exactly as she had left it, with the covers neatly folded back, and her clothes were still in the wardrobe. Smiling wearily at the sight of her familiar bed, she collapsed onto it, burying her face into the pillow. She lay there exhausted for a while, then frowned and sniffed the pillow. It smelled rather musty; it would need to be washed. She would just have to get herself a new one before she retired for the night...

Now where did he keep the fresh pillows? The young woman sat up on the bed, tapping her booted foot in thought, then remembered. Of course - in the large chest that stood in the spare bedroom! She marched out of her bedchamber with the candle and walked across the corridor once more, smiling in recollection at the familiar framed likenesses that hung on the walls before entering the unused guest bedroom. It was dark, only lit by her small candle, but the room was small and she remembered where everything lay. She arrived in front of the wooden chest and bent down to lift its lid -

The young woman froze as she noticed something white on the bed, illuminated by the dim light of her candle. Turning her head towards it with a frown, her blue eyes widened in shock as she saw there was a_ man_ lying there! Blood rising to colour her cheeks with embarrassment, she was on the verge of rushing out for fear of having disturbed this guest when she realised he was fast asleep. Curiosity got the better of her, and she moved forwards cautiously, shielding the candle with a hand so the light would not wake him.

Who was this man staying in the bedroom? She had not known there would be guests here...

This man was very strange-looking indeed, and she could not recognise him for his face was covered completely by a white, leather mask that only showed his mouth and eyes. She frowned. Why was he wearing it? It did not seem as if it were for some bizarre medicinal reasons, as it had the appearance of a finely-made theatre mask. What could its purpose possibly be, then? From the look of the proud curve of his jaw and chin, the stern, strong line of his mouth and the delicately lavender-tinged eyelids with their black eyelashes - their dark, thick lashes that cast their forked shadows across the mask in the candlelight - he was a very handsome man. Her blush deepened, then she seized control of herself. He surely wore that mask for a specific _reason_...but what could it be?

Heart beating rapidly, she approached him. This was madness, she told herself. She should not be doing this...

Hesitantly, slowly, she reached out a hand. Her trembling fingertips drew nearer and nearer to the edge of the mask...her heart was thundering in her ears, not knowing what she would find under it...her fingers were so close she could feel the heat of his skin...so close she could almost -

'_Je vous le deconseille fortement, mademoiselle_,' a smooth, hypnotic voice purred warningly. I strongly advise against it, mademoiselle. With a start, the young woman realised it had been the man who had spoken, and she snatched her hand away immediately, shamed and frightened. How had he known she was there? If he had been aware of her presence, why had he not spoken to her? Had he been testing her somehow? The man's eyes opened and stared straight at her. They were amber-gold and glittered in the dark, full of intelligence and a strange, intense power.

She ran from the room.

* * *

When Docteur Bayard came home, the young woman was downstairs, sitting tensely in an armchair, looking very scared indeed. His initial look of shock when he saw her was quickly replaced by a huge, radiant smile that broke over his face.

'Oh, what a marvellous surprise!' he said joyfully, putting his bag down on the floor and rushing to her, his hat still in his hands. 'I thought you were coming in two days' time...oh, how wonderful it is to have you back home -' He broke off, noticing the young woman's expression of distress. 'What is it, _ma chère_?' Her eyes were wide and she was silently but frantically jabbing her forefinger towards the ceiling. Bayard frowned, then suddenly understood.

'Of course - yes, I forgot to tell you of our guest...dear me, I am sorry you had to find out for yourself...' he said. 'My old friend Madame Giry recently put him under my charge - the poor man was dying and in fever when I came to see him. I am afraid I shall have to save introductions for tomorrow...I hope he did not startle you in any way...'

She flushed and shook her head fiercely, trying to hide her guilt. Bayard shrugged, then smiled at her again, opening his arms wide to embrace her.

'You have no idea how much I have missed you, _ma fille_ - it is truly marvellous to have you home,' he said, enfolding her in his arms. 'I shall take your trunk up for you in a moment; there is something I must do first...'

Ignoring the young woman's frantic gestures, he ran up the stairs, and then entered Erik's bedroom where he came to an abrupt halt. The prone figure on the bed sat up immediately, the mask glowing eerily in the darkness.

'Ah...I see you are awake,' remarked Bayard, unsure how to start as he approached the man's bedside. Erik gave him a humourless half-smile that, with a heavier hint of the insolence already there, could easily have been a smirk.

'Could you possibly be so kind as to tell me, monsieur, who was the young woman attempting to see the horror behind my mask?' he asked politely, his expression invisible to Bayard beneath the hard lines of white leather.

Docteur Bayard sighed.

'She is my daughter, Lucie,' he explained. 'Please forgive her. I had not had the chance to inform her of your presence, and I am sure she did not mean any offence.' He tried in vain to discern the other man's expression. After a brief pause, however, the corners of Erik's mouth drew upwards in an odd smile.

'None taken, none taken, mon cher monsieur!' he said, in a tone that could almost be described as pleasant. However, Bayard was not really sure whether he meant this or not...Madame Giry was correct when she had described Erik to him as frustratingly unfathomable and with a very changeable temperament. Bayard settled on the thought that Erik was being kind and he should leave it at that.

'Well...I am glad to hear it,' he replied eventually. 'Please excuse me for this. Now, I think I shall have to bid you goodnight.'

'Goodnight then, Docteur Bayard,' said Erik, his melodious voice taking a strange, unnerving sing-song tone, as if he was mocking him. Deciding not to pay heed to this, Bayard left the room to join his daughter, intent on reassuring her and finding out the details of her holiday.

* * *

The following morning, Lucie Bayard passed the masked man's silent bedroom with apprehension and went downstairs to find her father sitting at the breakfast table poring over sheets and sheets of paper. He looked up at her with a smile when she entered the room.

'Ah, good morning, Lucie,' the Docteur greeted her. His daughter smiled back, her blue eyes still bleary with sleep. Even though she was in her early twenties, she still felt just like a child on mornings like these when she came downstairs and saw her father hard at work over breakfast.

Docteur Bayard shuffled the papers distractedly, then looked up at her again as she made her way to the kitchen. 'Lucie,' he called after her, 'could you be so helpful as to take a bowl of broth to our guest upstairs?'

Lucie blanched and looked terrified. She began to shake her head.

'Please, Lucie,' sighed Docteur Bayard tiredly. 'I have such a lot of work to do, and the two of you still need to become acquainted one way or another. He is our guest, after all, and we must not be rude to him, now, must we?'

The young woman's shoulders sank, and she nodded her head in resigned agreement, still looking scared. She wanted to please her father, and surely bringing up a bowl of broth to a sick man was not so difficult...

Ladling it out into a small bowl and putting a spoon into it, Lucie placed the broth on a tray and walked upstairs with it. Her father smiled at her gratefully as she passed him and continued up the stairs. Her heart was beating loudly. Would the strange man be resentful after what she had so foolishly attempted last night? Those eyes of his...so penetrating, so commanding, so proud...they unnerved her almost as much as the mask he wore.

As she entered his room, she prayed he would be still asleep, ill as he was. However, when she arrived at his bedside, she found to her dismay that he was most certainly not. The man's eyes were well and truly open, and a small smile was playing on his lips. He sat up as Lucie put the tray down on the bedside table, unable to look him in the eyes.

Erik found himself amused by this young woman, as she seemed to fear him even with his mask properly on. Childish creature...he would doubtlessly be able to amuse himself further by scaring her even more.

'Good morning, mademoiselle Lucie,' he murmured from the shadows, shocking her with his knowledge of her name. 'Why do you avoid my gaze so, child? Am I truly frightening you to that extent?'

Lucie still seemed afraid, but now she looked him straight in the eye with a small frown. To his mild surprise, she was older than he had initially guessed. She was definitely somewhere in her twenties...not a child at all, though she had behaved like one the previous night with her cursèd curiosity.

Realising she had not replied, Erik narrowed his eyes with a taunting smile.

'Well? Can you not speak?' he asked her mockingly.

Lucie's fear suddenly seemed to evaporate and he was taken aback by the expression of hurt on her face. For a long second she watched him, as if at a loss what to do, then looked at the floor and shamefully shook her head.

The crooked smile slipped from his face.

'You truly cannot?' he said softly, quite alarmed.

Lucie's kind face suddenly creased in anguish and she left the room in silent, seething anger, leaving Erik stunned and feeling almost...guilty?

He shook himself inside. _Guilty_? He had tormented and terrified _hundreds_ of ballet rats and had never felt any flicker of conscience, not even when they ran off screaming and sobbing. But that look she had given him...he had, for one horrible second, recognised that very look. It was the look of hurt and pain that had so often contorted his own features as a child when the gypsies had taunted him for their entertainment.

Erik ran his hands through his black, tangled locks agitatedly. Why had Giry let him live when all he was doing was tormenting innocent young women like Lucie? He truly was a beast...

For a while he grappled with his conscience, and then, as it was weak and new, smothered it easily, coming to the conclusion that the brat deserved it. Just like the rest of them - too curious for her own good. He lay down with an angry sigh, lip curling as he twisted a fistful of bedsheet in his hands, and he spent several minutes glowering at the ugly, gaudy spots of sunlight that danced on the ceiling before he fell asleep once more.

* * *

'Yes, monsieur, she is mute,' Docteur Bayard said regretfully, later that day when he had brought Erik's next meal. 'But not in the way most would believe it...'

'How so?' asked Erik detachedly, taking the bowl.

Bayard sighed, looking to the door and pursing his lips beneath his moustache.

'She does not speak because she has no wish to - a sort of _voluntary_ dumbness, if you will,' he explained. 'I suppose it is due to nothing other than the shadows of the past haunting her, for as a child she witnessed something that traumatised her, and caused her to lose her will to communicate.' His eyes turned sad. 'She saw her mother killed before her very eyes, monsieur. Helène was a just and kind woman, but it did not spare her.' He gave a short sigh, bemused by the tears that now glistened behind his spectacles at the memory of his dear wife. He took a deep breath. 'Highwaymen,' he said matter-of-factly. 'A band of them. Lucie was eleven years old at the time...she and Helène were in the carriage on their way back from the seaside. I had stayed at home, to continue with my work...' The lines on Bayard's face grew deeper, and he shook his head. 'They did not stand a chance. Helène was brutally murdered, as was the coachman, but Lucie herself escaped. To this day she can only get into a carriage if it is within Paris - if it is in the country, she takes the train instead. After the encounter with the highwaymen, she was found by a charitable young farmer who brought her back to me...the last words she spoke were my name and our address, and then...silence. And that silence has continued for thirteen years...'

'My condolences for your wife, monsieur,' Erik said quietly and formally, his masked face in darkness. As soon as the words left him, he almost laughed. He, the Devil's Child, the infamous Phantom, was being compassionate towards an old fool of a doctor who had only lost his wife? How could this be! How could this be when nobody had ever shown _him_ any sympathy for his lost life - the life he would never have?

His musings of wives and lives were interrupted by Docteur Bayard's exit from the room, and the knowledge that he was once more alone. Erik sighed, dispassionately stirring the contents of the bowl with his spoon. Solitude he did not mind, for it was what he deserved...

Swallowing a few tentative spoonfuls, he remembered the small furry rodent he had gorged himself on down in his lair when the hunger had become too much. He could not think _what_ possessed him to reach out and snap the terrified creature's neck with his long fingers as it ran past him. His thoughts had been obliterated completely by the primal urge to nourish himself, to end the rodent's life in favour of feeding his own. But of course, the small, unidentifyable mammal - that had probably been a rat, now he thought about it - would have had a far better future than he. Far, far better...

Yet he had succumbed to the mind-numbing hunger clawing at his insides. Erik looked at the hand he was holding the spoon with, and noticed the tiny, dull-red scars on his fingers where the rat's little teeth had frantically torn at his skin in a desperate bid to escape. He had been reduced to something beastial then, deaf to the creature's high-pitched shrieks as he broke it and then pulled away its fur to thoughtlessly devour the warm flesh beneath. Erik's stomach contracted at the memory, and he shuddered, making his bowl tremble in his spidery hands. He could still taste the acrid flavour of its blood...he closed his eyes in disgust. What a fall from dignity...well, from what little dignity he had _left_...

Painfully, he put the full bowl on the bedside table and sank down, wanting sleep, but in its stead finding memories of his own past surging up to claim him as he fell once again into the black depths of pure, bitter self-loathing.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3: Music's Flight

_**A/N: Happy New Year! Bonne Anée 2008! Ooh...I just saw a brilliant documentary about life in turn-of-the-century Paris...what luck! (And there was me thinking that having only French TV 24/7 was a bad thing...) But it was about life during roughly the 1889-1900 period - 30 years after the events at the Opéra Populaire. I am contemplating the idea of doing some shameless time-tweaking...hmm...uncertain.**_

_**I also may be adding **_**some**_** fluff, in later chapters - you've gotta have a little fluff **_**somewhere**_**, after all. You may have noticed, too, that I'm having a bit of trouble with the spacing here...for some reason it separates the text waaay too much - anyone know how to get it back to normal? Cheers. **_

_**And thanks for all the encouragement, GhostOfMusic! I have now planned out every chapter so that I know what I'm doing, and so now all I need to do is start writing it out with more detail (and translate it from my obscure note-slang to regular English...) Hee-hee...enjoy.**_

* * *

Music. Soft, gentle piano music, slightly muffled by the walls. Erik's yellow eyes opened, and he watched the ceiling for a while, serenely listening to the gentle melody. Ah, music - what sweet torment it was for him now! But from where did it come?

He raised his pale, thin body from the bed, and got to his feet. For a moment he swayed slightly, unbalanced, but then righted himself and walked ponderously to the door. He walked like an old man now; his strength had still not returned, if it would return at all. This frustrated him to no end, him being a man used to flying across suspended catwalks and flitting swiftly behind walls. But he was broken inside, and this was what took its toll on him.

However, for now he did not dwell on this: his thoughts were only on the music that was being played somewhere in the house. He had not known that Bayard owned a piano...Entering an unfamiliar, glaringly sunlit corridor, he listened for a while, and then laboriously made his way across it and through a doorway on the opposite side. The carpet under his bony toes turned to wood once more, and the music heightened in volume as he entered the room.

Erik paused in the doorway, catching his breath and cursing his stiff, trembling limbs. He seemed to be on the threshold of a small room with a wooden floor and panelled walls. A large window to one side poured sunlight into it, lighting up the piano that stood in the room's centre. Sitting at the instrument, with her back to him, was none other than Lucie Bayard. She had apparently not heard him open the door, and was continuing to play. Erik turned his head to one side slightly, eyes unfocusing as he lost himself in the tune. It was a simple melody she played, and she was most certainly not professional - but she played with flair and seemed to find such fulfilment in it... The rich sound of the piano filled the room entirely, each note a pleasurable dagger in Erik's shattered heart. What memories music now brought to him - he still loved it, he still lived for it...but how could he continue loving it when it reminded him of...of...

Suddenly the music stopped, and he realised she was watching him.

* * *

Lucie stared at the man in surprise. Why had he risen? Had her music woken him? She certainly hoped not. She had been playing very quietly, but it seemed he had sharp ears when it came to music...

She had no way of telling how long he had been standing there, simply contemplating her with his strange golden eyes, his mask shining a blinding white in the sun. What a mysterious man he was...and what an odd look there had been in his eyes. She wished she could see his face to know what emotion it had been. The permanent, blank scowl of his mask obscured most of his facial expressions, but although his eyes and mouth were still able to betray him, now they did not. She could not discern any of his thoughts, so she waited patiently for him to speak.

'You play well,' he finally murmured, walking a little way into the room but keeping well away from her. Goodness, he was tall! From where she sat, he seemed to tower over her even more. She guessed that even if she stood the top of her head would only just brush the middle of his chest. But he was so frightfully thin...

Lucie gave him a small smile and inclined her head in modest thanks. She was determined to make amends with this man - her father seemed to think well of him, and the two of them _had_ started off rather on the wrong foot...

The man - Erik, her father had said his name was - regarded her steadily, then his eyes flickered down to caress the long board of polished piano keys in an almost reverent manner. He looked up at her again, curious.

'Who is your teacher...if you can answer me?' he asked softly and politely, his bewitching tenor making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end with its sheer beautiful power.

Lucie bit her lip, then shrugged and pointed to herself.

'You taught yourself?'

She nodded, and he began to peruse the shiny wooden curves of the piano's fine body once more, his hands clasped behind his back, sharp shoulders straight. Refusing to be intimidated by his mask when he looked at her again, she tilted her head slightly in the direction of the piano, her face questioning.

His mouth tightened convulsively, but then he answered normally enough:

'No. No, I do not play.'

With that, he turned and left the room. Lucie frowned. She would never be able to fathom him...

* * *

The boat rocked slightly as Madame Giry pushed it forwards, the lanterns upon it casting their shimmering reflections upon the water. The knowledge that she was truly alone now under the Opera house unnerved her, and she wanted to be above ground again as soon as possible. The last time she had come down here, Erik had still been in his lair...but now the underground labyinth of arches, caverns and canals was empty. It was rather off-putting, the thought that she was on her own in the darkness, but she needed to do this; not only for Erik, but for Docteur Bayard as well - she needed to bring back Erik's dishonest earnings so that he could have a home of his own and not encroach on the Bayard household any longer. Listening attentively for the change in the note of the wind ahead, she skirted the other low passageways that led to dead ends and water traps, until she came to the opening at last.

As soon as she reached it, though, she knew something was wrong. The portcullis was raised (of course, she had forgotten to lower it again when she had passed by with Erik and the Docteur!) and _there were voices from within_. Madame Giry stopped pushing the boat onwards out of sheer surprise as she saw the faint glow of light in the lair across the water, from where there came the sound of gravelly male voices. She stared in horror, beginning to propel the gondola forwards once more with her hands gripping the pole even tighter than before. How _dare_ they? The portcullis had only been accidentally left open for a week or so, yet already thieves were swarming in, hungry for the gold they knew lay hidden beyond it. What nerve they had to trespass so brazenly!

The boat had barely scraped the bank when Madame Giry leapt from it, nearly tearing her narrow black skirts in her haste. A second vessel, a rickety row-boat, was lying on its side nearby, and she glanced at it contemptuously. It was already piled with a few of the golden candelabra, some of the taller ones snapped into smaller pieces to fit into the bottom of the boat. Burlap sacks and a few tools lay inside the row-boat among the battered, cracked oars, and Madame Giry was tempted to sink it out of scorn. However, she did not, wanting to find the pilferers herself as soon as possible. Leaving the gondola, which looked so sleek and grand beside the ugly, scratched row-boat, she marched forwards in the direction of the light, very glad indeed that she had thought to bring her cane with her.

She walked forwards, her posture as tall and straight-backed as any professional ballet artist's, picking her way through the detritus on the ground. Most of the broken objects had been swept aside, and piles of sheet music and torn canvas had visibly been rummaged through. Her mouth now a thin line of fury, she marched towards the area that was illuminated by several petrol-lamps.

Madame Giry stopped and stared. Two men, wearing shabby, oil-stained clothes and wielding shovels were in the centre of the lit area, working away at part of the lair's wall that was crumbling. A pickaxe, which had been used to hack at the hard wall, was lying on the ground beside a couple of sacks that were filled with gold. The thieves had somehow found the hiding-place of the Phantom's extensive income, presumably by demolishing walls until they found it. Rubble lay everywhere, and though the sacks were full the two thieves were looking for more hidden in the lair's walls.

Madame Giry was absolutely appalled. She had come down to the lair with the intention of pushing the hidden switch behind the fine mahogany desk to enter the treasure room, only to find that the entire wall behind the desk was missing, the room beyond it bare. What blatant violation, indeed! The thieves were still busy mining at the opposite wall, greedy for more gold, not paying any heed to the beauty they were desecrating. She narrowed her eyes; enough was enough.

'Bonsoir, messieurs.'

Her clipped, sharp tone - well developed from years of shouting commands at errant ballerinas - rang out over the scraping of the shovels, making the two thieves stop digging and spin around in shock. They stared in surprise at the haughty, stern ballet-mistress as she held them with her piercing gaze.

'Might I ask what your business is here?' she snapped, both hands resting on the head of her black cane. The men glanced at each other, wondering whether this woman was truly a threat to them. But after seeing the dangerous glint in her eye and the way her fingers tightened around the cane, they decided that _yes_, she _was_.

'Er...begging your pardon, m'dame, but we're not the first people to come down here,' one of them said guiltily. '_Everybody's_ talking about it, m'dame.'

'Talking about _what_ exactly?'

The thief glanced at his accomplice. 'Well...the Phantom's Hoard,' he muttered. Madame Giry raised her eyebrows. The _Phantom's Hoard_? No...this could not be true...How could a legend be born from a legend in such a short amount of time? Yet obviously the thieves believed it, and judging by the gold in their sacks, their belief was paying off.

'We only found this much...the rest's already been taken,' continued the other thief. 'Seems like a lot of people came down before us and beat us to it. We were just looking, m'dame...'

'Just looking?' repeated Madame Giry acidly, her eyes turning to the wreckage of the wall. 'Have you no common sense, you fools? You will bring the Opéra down upon your heads with all of this digging!'

One of the men looked sheepish. 'Well...it _is_ in ruins already, if I might be so bold -'

'_Non_, monsieur! Enough of this!' vociferated the enraged ballet mistress, outraged at their sheer nerve. 'I am a representative of the Opéra Populaire and you would do better to leave this place, _now_!'

The two thieves looked as if they were about to object, but Madame Giry sent them swiftly on their way with a wave of her cane. As they hurried off, muttering and cursing, she glared after them in disgust. The Phantom's Hoard, indeed!

'You are fortunate, messieurs, that I am letting you go with no more than a warning!' she called out over the splash of oars, then walked over to the bags of gold. They were right, it was only a fraction of the money Erik had amassed over the years. 'Oh, _mais_..._regarde-moi ça_...' she grumbled to herself. Will you just look at that... '_Maudits impértinents_...cursed impertinent people...' Even just by looking she knew that the gold within the sacks was nowhere near enough for a house. A tiny apartment, maybe...but it would have to do for the moment. The only thing left to do now was to take what remained of the money to the bank, and inform Erik of the news, hoping for the best.

Madame Giry grimaced as she picked up the sacks. She had a feeling he would not like this situation at all...

* * *

The piano stood silently in the middle of the empty room. It seemed to beckon, pleading to be played, its smooth, strong keys appealing soundlessly while its hidden wires trembled with the promise of rich, beautiful music. Voluptuously curved wood gleamed darkly and seductively in the light of the setting sun, reflecting the scarlet glow that came through the large windows. The keys shone, the golden music-stand glimmered, the black leather bench stood invitingly before them...

Erik hovered in the shadow of the door, leaning against the wall for support with his long fingers shaking as he imagined the feel of the smooth wood beneath them, the simple joy that coaxing a tune from it could bring. That damned piano had been tormenting him all day, haunting his thoughts and reminding him that he had not touched an instrument for a long, long time...oh, how he hated this yearning to experience the ringing euphoria that had always coursed through him when he had a set of keys at his fingertips! The yearning made him feel weak, made him feel as if he had forgotten what his music had done to him, what it had done to others...but it was becoming hard to fight, especially now as he stood watching the piano. Bayard and his daughter were downstairs. If he indulged his craving for music as softly as possible...if he played quietly...they would never know of it...

Erik slowly, slowly crept forwards, cursing the frailty of his resolve. All he wished to do was to produce one, signular note, to feel the power of music just one final time...he sat himself down at the piano bench, the stinging, unwelcome sunlight in his eyes not bothering him for once as he stared dreamily at the keys. How enticing they were, for simple blocks of wood! How marvellously appealing with the power they held...one bony, pale finger scored with faint scars flexed, then came forwards to lovingly caress a glossy black key. He had always liked the black keys best; just one added to a whole host of white keys could make a completely different sound, could change the entire _feeling_ of a tune. Masked face tilted down, amber eyes full of a deep emotion even he could not understand, his trembling finger pressed down gently. A soft, rich note issued from the piano's heart, and made the corners of his dry lips twitch upwards involuntarily. Erik pressed another key, a white one, savouring the subtle yet tangible difference between them. Closing his eyes with an uncharacteristically tender smile, he produced another note, then another, and another...his left hand leapt to the lower keys of its own volition, and slowly, like the gears of a clockwork machine winding faster and faster, the room began to echo with the music that was suddenly beginning to pour from him. He was doing what he had always done, what he always wanted to do - unleashing his complex, frustrating emotions in the form of music. Erik's hands pounded on the keys, throwing caution to the winds as he revelled in the glorious sound that engulfed him. He closed his eyes, eyebrows drawing together as the pain, the loss, the terrible _longing_ flowed through his fingers and out through the piano. Looking at the keys was not necessary for him - he knew where they all were, as he had for decades, and now, as the music rebounded from the walls and back at him, he lost all sense of time and place. He was consumed by his own thunderous crescendos, lilting legato notes and shivering trills as they echoed all around. Augmented, diminished, sustained, seventh, minor, major...ever-changing, his music mirrored his deepest, darkest emotions, and was his only source of comfort in a world that ignored his torment. As his fingers struck the keys and flitted across them with such force they blistered, he enigmatically felt himself lifted by the music of his own pain. _Oh, quelle âcreté merveilleuse_! What marvellous bitterness!

The discordant fluidity of Erik's music had devoured him to such an extent that he did not perceive Lucie hesitantly opening the piano room door. She had not been able to believe her ears when she had heard the etheral, passionate tumult from upstairs, and it had taken her a while to realise that _Erik_ was playing. If only her father had waited a little longer before going to the post office to send off his documents...then he might have heard that beautiful intermingling of sounds that she knew she would never be able to describe to him, even with words. Now she watched Erik with silent fascination as he ran his hands up and down the piano keys, fingers moving unnaturally fast, entire body tilting forwards or backwards in accordance to the notes he stressed. Why had he told her that he could not play the piano when he was a true prodigy at it? Surely it was not modesty; Erik did not seem to be a man who possessed much reticence. Her eyes followed the complex dance his fingers performed, wondering how a person's hands could move so quickly. She had never heard music like his before; so hypnotic, so beautiful and grand and majestic...but full of dark discords and worrying minor chords that evoked a sense of deep, deep despair and rage. How could all of this come from one man? Was this a tune he had leant, or was he just inventing it as it came? The more Lucie watched the tensing of Erik's bony shoulders, the bowing of his head, the swinging of his shirt's tails over the back of the piano bench, the more convinced she was that this music was fresh from the depths of his soul. Her wonder turned to concern for a moment before she was once more swept away by the sweet, black sorrow that he played. To think he was at her lowly piano, the very piano she had so recently played her modest melodies on, and making it peal out such a beautiful, haunting symphony of pain and loss! A normal man could not possibly create such a magnificent reverberation of sounds; at the piano Erik seemed..._beyond _human. To say that he played like a god would be an exaggeration...no, thought Lucie, he played like an _ang_-

Without warning at all, Erik's finger slipped on a key. Normally, he would just continue playing, or reinforce the note slip into the actual tune, but for some reason his mind numbed and he could not think for a split second. His hands faltered, and the entire symphony came crashing down, out of control, no longer music but a mere dissonant noise, an ungainly clashing of notes. Erik's eyes were wide with disbelief as his fingers shook, somehow unable to regain their familiar sprightly grace. To his absolute horror, he found the flow of music in his mind had completely halted, his fingers blundering over the keys until he slammed both fists down in furious resignation.

* * *

Lucie stared wide-eyed from the doorway. Why had he stopped playing? He had only made one small mistake...why had he come to such a brusque and noisy stop? By the look of it, Erik was full of frustrated shock. He did not appear able to play a single further note. Her eyes filled with sadness on his behalf as Erik slumped forwards across the keys with a crash of sound, his shoulders shaking and his back curving with soft, horrified sobs. If Lucie had not learned to listen rather than speak over the past years, she would not have heard his crying at all, so bitterly soft it was. It was a woeful sound to hear indeed, and she found herself wishing she could say something to comfort him. But no, she had long chosen silence, and could do nothing about it.

Tentatively, Lucie came towards the hunched form of Erik as he wept quietly but inconsolably. The raised ridge of his spine was made even more prominent through his clothing as his curving body shook, and she once more felt alarmed by how emaciated and wiry he was. He looked so frail now, as his true sentiments made themselves known through the tears he shed. Lucie reached out with a shaking hand to comfortingly touch his shoulder, but as soon as her fingers brushed the fabric of his shirt his entire body stiffened, making her start back.

'_Ne me touchez pas_!' he cried, in a strained and shaken voice, never raising his face. _Do not touch me!_

Lucie frowned at him. Her father had told her of Erik's unfortunate deformity, and from the tone of his voice she had been glad she had not managed to lift the man's mask after all. Her father had also said that Erik's life had not been easy, from what he had gathered, and so Lucie assumed his hatred of the physical touch of strangers had come from some bad past experience. The poor man...if only there was a way to console him...

Feeling useless, Lucie politely offered Erik her lace-edged handkerchief. At her movement, he looked towards her with glistening, red eyes, a tear clinging to the bottom of his mask. Seeing the handkerchief she held out to him with a look of concern on her face, Erik gave a bitter laugh, confusing her.

'No, thank you, mademoiselle, I have no use for it,' he said, getting up just as Lucie suddenly remembered with mortification that the man had no nose, and had probably thought she had meant...oh, _no_...

She gesticulated frantically to stop him, then shook her head and indicated her eyes. _I meant for you to dry your eyes...your eyes, monsieur_! However, Erik's thoughts were elsewhere, and he merely declined, sweeping past her and out of the room. His mind was still in a state of complete and utter shock, because something terrible and unthinkable had happened...something he had never thought would _ever_ occur...

His music had left him.


	4. Chapter 4: Some Bad News

_**A/N:**__** Yay, more reviews! Woot! Woot! A big big thank you to GhostOfMusic (yes, that was a sad chapter...Erik still loves music but its disappearance is making him all angst-y), AuroraSky (yippee! I'm so glad to hear that! I had great fun writing that twist...most of Erik's actions are actually inspired by the times when I mess up on my keyboard; sometimes it's just one wrong note that makes me forget the whole bleeding tune! Ooh, do I feel his pain - though I don't exactly break down crying when I lose track of what I'm playing...), Hot4Gerry (what a lovely penname! I agree, Gerry's the bomb. Thank you so much for those kind words! Hmm...I didn't realise I hinted at anything like that in my summary...But don't worry, this won't be a Christine-Sees-Erik-And-Randomly-Leaves-Raoul-For-Him type of story. No, no, no...Christine and Raoul belong together, as much as it pains me to say it. She chose him, after all - which was **_**so**_** cruel to poor Erik, but there you have it. I agree that maybe Erik and Christine together may not have worked in the long run...but Erik doesn't know that, does he? This Erik is the obsessional type, and he will not be able to let go of the memory Christine that easily. I'm not saying he'll kidnap her again, but she will be plaguing his mind a little bit... She was his first love, after all, and he wrote a whole opera for her - **_**and**_** wanted her to marry him. It's only natural that she'll be hard to forget...Thanks again for the lovely long review!) and dreamysherry (glad to hear it !)**_

_**Oh dear...poor Erik. Well, he did say: "You alone can make my song take flight/It's over now, the music of the night!". I guess those memories were getting too much for him... And as for those greedy, pilfering thieves, well...let's just say Erik won't be very happy with them...**_

_**(Excuse the delay, this does take a VERY long time to write…and it's back to school on Tuesday…groan…)**_

* * *

Madame Giry knocked sharply upon the front door of the smart town-house, the evening air piercing and sweet around her as Paris settled down for the night. She waited patiently on the doorstep for a moment, clutching her rose-patterned shawl around her shoulders, until the door was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed in a lace-edged pinny. The ballet mistress gave her a tight smile.

'Good evening, Joséphine,' she said cordially. 'Is the Docteur in?'

The blonde maid smiled back, her cheeks rosy and a glimmer of happiness in her eye as she recognised Madame Giry.

'Yes, he is, madame,' Joséphine replied. 'Do come in, do come in!'

Madame Giry obliged and followed her into Docteur Bayard's house. She had been here on very few occasions, but it had changed very little since the last time she had come. She turned to the maid.

'I see you have returned from your leave, Joséphine,' remarked Madame Giry.

'Oh, yes...Docteur Bayard permitted me a short while off to visit my new niece, bless the little creature. He's such a kind man...' said Joséphine, taking Madame Giry's hat and gloves.

'That we all know,' the ballet mistress agreed, and Joséphine went to inform the doctor of the visitor. Madame Giry looked around; yes, there was the velvet couch and armchair beside the fireplace...the old brass candle-holders on the dark green, papered walls...everything was exactly as it had been before. She even recognised the framed likenesses that sat on the mantlepiece. A fond smile stretched her lips; the Docteur had indeed not changed one bit, it seemed.

'Ah - Madame Giry! _Quelle bonne surprise_! What a nice surprise!'

Docteur Bayard himself came around the corner, blue eyes twinkling merrily. His thinning hair, so contrasting with his thick moustache, was combed and tidy, his eyeglasses perched on his nose, wobbling slightly as he beamed at her.

'How have you fared with him?' Madame Giry asked him immediately in a hushed, worried tone, unable to do anything but get to the point. It had been the only thing on her mind for the whole journey to Bayard's house: whether or not Erik had been troublesome. She had greatly feared that, as a man so scornful of others and so volatile in his moods, Erik would do something terrible during his stay at the doctor's house. After all, he had been awfully reluctant to be dragged from his lair, and she had fully expected him to hold a grudge against her and the Docteur about it...

'He has been...calm,' Docteur Bayard answered, taking time to choose an appropriate word. 'That is, he has been rather reclusive. He does not seem to enjoy the company of others much...which, I assume, is only natural given the terrible misfortunes he has endured throughout the course of his life...' He adjusted his spectacles while he thought for a while. 'As for his health...he has recovered remarkably well. The change of air has done him the world of good. One might even say he is nearing full recovery, in fact. But...on the other hand...' He hesitated, frowning slightly.

'Yes?' Madame Giry prompted him, anxious to know.

Docteur Bayard sighed. 'Well...I just don't understand it. Monsieur Erik was perfectly fine yesterday morning - a little reserved, yes, though nothing out of the ordinary - but when I returned from the post office that evening, he seemed in a state of terrible distress. He would not speak to me, and appeared quite upset by something...I could not possibly guess what.' His face was just as full of concern as Madame Giry's. 'Lucie had remained here with him, while I had gone to post my letters, and I have a suspicion that she knows very well why the poor man was in such a state - though she will not tell me why, or even attempt to explain in her own little ways. I wonder if they are hiding something...but what it is I do not know...'

Madame Giry looked surprised. 'Your daughter is acquainted with Erik?'

'In a sense,' said Docteur Bayard hesitantly. 'I have not, in actual fact, _seen_ the two of them together, but I think they now tolerate each other's presence.' Madame Giry felt very fortunate indeed about this, and was glad that she not arrived later than today. It was best to remove Erik from this household as soon as possible; she knew from the experience of trying to console fear-maddened ballerinas that he could have a very negative effect on young women in the long term. She did not wish anything ill to happen to Bayard's poor daughter - the girl had already been shocked into dumbness once in her life, and it would not do for Erik to become a new source of torment to her.

'I am happy to hear it - it is not usual for him to accept somebody so quickly,' she said. 'May I see him?'

* * *

Once in the guest bedroom upstairs, Madame Giry peered through the darkness at the shape curled up on the bed. There were no candles lit whatsoever within the room, and everything was black. This made a sharp contrast with the golden brightness of the hallway outside, and her eyes took time to adjust to the dramatic absence of light. But even when they did, she could not clearly distinguish the figure huddled in the shadows. She frowned in concern. What could possibly be troubling him so? She did not like the fact that she would now bring more bad news to him...when she had told Docteur Bayard a few moments ago, he had been shocked - and if a man as kindly as Bayard was shocked by the news, she dreaded to think of _Erik_'s reaction...

Gathering courage, she said: 'Erik?'

The skeletal, pale figure on the bed trembled slightly, giving what sounded very much like a muffled sob, and murmured: 'Not a single note..._not a single note_...gone, all gone...oh, misery!'

Knowing she was unlikely to get an answer if she asked, Madame Giry ignored his cryptic utterings and came nearer. 'Erik...I have brought you a purse of money so that you may purchase your own clothes and other necessities.' She extracted the heavy purse from the deep pocket of her creaseless dress and put it neatly on the bedside table with a sharp _chink_, making Erik's red-rimmed golden eyes appear from under the cover of his arm. Seeing she had his attention, Madame Giry took a deep breath. 'However, I am afraid I have some bad news...' She broke off, partly because she was unsure how to start, and partly because of Erik's unnervingly penetrating stare through the eye-holes of his mask. Then, she continued: 'I was appalled to find that rumour has spread about something bluntly called "_Le Magot du Fantôme_". I suspect one of the more insufferable stagehands started it, and now many people know of it -'

Erik's eyes narrowed with a rage that fully eclipsed his despair. 'The _Phantom's Hoard_?' he repeated venomously.

'I'm afraid thieves have already entered your previous home, and stolen away almost everything,' Madame Giry carried on regretfully. 'I saved what I could of your gold, but sadly it is not enough for a sizeable house.'

She waited for the explosion to come to pass, but it did not. Erik just lay tense and glaring, his anger burning in his eyes. 'Of course,' she added hurriedly, afraid that his silence meant an even greater eruption of fury would occur soon, 'I am sure I shall be able to find a place for you to stay, as there _does_ still remain a fair amount -'

In a flurry of movement, Erik was on his feet, making Madame Giry stumble back in shock. His fists were clenched, and he stood tall and wrathful even in his borrowed clothes. Although she could not see his expression, she knew it was probably the mirror image of the mask's dangerous frown.

'They shall see, then!' he growled, livid. 'They shall see what happens when they pry where they should not!'

He strode out of the room, leaving Madame Giry stunned for a second before she regained herself and called after him: 'Erik! Wherever are you going?'

'I shall return!' was his only answer as he flew down the stairs and out through the front door into the night, deaf to the cries of alarm that he left in his wake.

* * *

In the eerie darkness of the abandoned lair, four people were busily moving about. The two thieves that had met Madame Giry were amongst them, and it was they who had brought reinforcements in case they were caught once again. However, even though they were now sure that nobody would find them and they probably should not have bothered with the extra people, four pairs of hands were decidedly more useful than two.

One of the thieves, a blond man with a straggly beard, went over to the towering mass of the wrecked organ, gawping up at the pipes like a fool. 'Those pipes could make us a fortune, if we melt them down...' he speculated, then touched a white key that lay on the smashed keyboard. 'And these keys...all ivory, look at them! Ivory's not cheap, either...come on, help me!'

Another man came forwards, and they greedily began taking the broken keys, piling the ivory - both the shards and the whole keys - into one of the sacks.

The other man chuckled around broken, crooked teeth: 'I bet the Moreau brothers would never have found this! Bloody idiots, the lot of them...they'd not even guess how much these ivory keys are worth...'

The two other thieves were busy hacking the golden candelabra to pieces. They would fetch a very nice price, once melted down. Luckily previous thieves had not thought to steal the candelabra or parts of the organ, only taking the money that had now long gone. These four particular men percieved themselves as the most intellectual of all scavengers and treasure-seekers, since they knew that wealth did not lie only in gold, but in other metals as well. The golden candelabra shone in the light of their numerous oil-lamps and lanterns. They had also thought to bring many, many sources of light, for not only did it help with finding more goods, but it also erased their collective, unspoken fear of what used to dwell in this cold, underground lair...

Most of the keys had been put into the bag. Now, the principal task at hand was to dislodge the keys still attached to the organ. Grunting and swearing, the blond thief and his accomplice attempted to tug them free, but then decided a different method would probably be better.

'It's no good,' said the crooked-toothed man. 'We should probably just bash at it and see what comes free...seems somebody already tried it, and it worked.'

'Yes,' agreed the blond man with a chuckle. 'You take the shovel. I'll get -'

_Whoosh_.

Abruptly, all of the oil-lamps sputtered and went out, and a split second later the candles in the lanterns streamed to one side before extinguishing in small puffs of smoke. The entire cavern was immediately plunged into darkness, all of the thieves' surroundings suddenly invisible.

'Argh!'

'_C'était quoi, ça_? What was that?'

'Why did the candles go out?'

'It was the wind...I felt it, there was a little gust of wind that came past...'

'Don't be stupid! There's no wind down here!'

The thieves blundered about in the blackness, tripping over pieces of candelabrum and knocking over dark, unlit oil-lamps. Swearwords and curses echoed around the cavern as each thief sought to find the boat, where they had left the tinder-box, under the impression that they would not need it. However, in the thick darkness, they had lost all sense of direction, and soon stopped searching for the boat as one of them stumbled into the icy-cold lake with a cry of surprise.

'Jean-Marie? _T'es où?_ Where are you? What happened?' the other thieves asked, hearing the splash, beginning to sound a little unnerved. 'Are you alright?'

'No, I'm cold and I'm soaked through,' replied the man who had fallen into the water, dragging himself up the shallow slope again grumpily -

The cavern was suddenly filled with a loud grinding, clanking sound. The thieves stood stock-still, alarmed by the sudden noise. 'What's that?'

'The portcullis!' yelped the man who had been drenched and consequently made sharper-witted by the cold water. 'It's going down!'

Sure enough, they could hear the unmistakeable sound of the huge metal gears lowering the portcullis. Immediately, they assumed another damned representative of the Opéra had caught them.

'Who's there?' shouted the blond man defiantly, a little confused by the fact that he could see no light from a boat anywhere.

'We're armed!' lied the third thief warningly, not knowing that he was facing the wall instead of the lake. Suddenly the man who was crouching by the water's edge froze.

'Did you hear that?'

'What? That little...whispery sound?'

'Yes...it sounded like somebody saying...saying...'

'"_So am I_"?' supplied the fourth thief fearfully.

Suddenly a deep, metallic groaning sounded out. The thieves all yelled in terror, not knowing from where the noise came. A high-pitched screech of metal answered them, and the groaning grew louder and louder until the crooked-toothed thief gibbered: '_The organ_!'

A huge, heavy pipe, invisible in the darkness, toppled over and fell through the insubstantial shadows until it landed with a clang on top of one of the thieves. The thief in question gave a bellow as the weight of it broke his leg with an ear-splitting _crack_. His accomplices rushed to his aid, all terrified witless, knowing only that they were stuck in the dark with strange things occurring all around them.

In the shadows, a tall, thin shape chuckled vindictively at their fear, then was gone.

* * *

'Erik! Where on _earth_ have you been?' Madame Giry was outraged, forgetting her wariness of him when he entered Bayard's living room, looking sinisterly content.

'Merely taking care of insufferable meddlers,' he said lightly, lips curled in a vicious smile. She frowned at him; he looked all too pleased with himself.

'I hope for your sake you did not kill any -'

'_No_, madame, I did not,' Erik spoke firmly, words clipped, arms crossed. 'They wanted numerous items from my place of residence, so I have obliged them...on the condition, that is, that they do not leave the lair.'

'Please, Erik, cease your riddles! Tell me what you did to them,' begged Madame Giry, full of stern desperation.

The masked man sighed, as if he was being denied a favourite game. 'I dropped the portcullis, and also made quite sure that they regretted their trespassing,' he said simply. 'Now, if you will excuse me...' He left the room, marching off up the stairs. Madame Giry looked at Docteur Bayard, who had been watching in silent shock the entire time from his place in the armchair.

'I'm terribly sorry about all of this, Victor, truly I am,' she apologised. 'He is not easy to control. I am afraid I must leave you for the moment, but I shall be back as soon as I have secured a place for him to stay!'

'No harm done, _ma chère madame_, no harm done...' replied Bayard kindly. 'I just hope nothing bad has happened to those poor men, is all.'

'As do I, monsieur,' sighed Madame Giry wearily. 'I must go now. Good night!'

'Good night, Antoinette,' said the Docteur, and saw her to the door. He waved after her encouragingly, and she smiled and hurried off down the street towards the opera house, her way lit by the orange-yellow streetlamps.

* * *

When Madame Giry arrived for the final time at the portcullis that blocked the path to the formed Phantom's lair, she could immediately hear the sound of the terrified thieves talking.

'It'll be fine, Benoît, just stay still...'

'It's quiet. D'you think that we're safe now?'

'Safe? _Safe_? We're trapped in a dark underground cavern, for God's sake! Don't talk to me about _safe_...'

Madame Giry pulled on the lever and the portcullis rose. She could hear the mens' exclamations of fear and surprise.

'No! No, please!'

'We're sorry!'

'Please let us go!'

What _has_ Erik done to them? She wondered, wearily pushing the gondola forwards.

'I should have warned you, messieurs,' she called out. There was a pause in the grovelling and shouting, and then the voices sounded out again:

'Oh, thank God!'

'Madame, please, help us!'

Once the boat had bumped against the slope, Madame Giry picked up her lantern and stepped out of it, completely unhurried. The thieves - there were _four_ of them this time - were all either standing, kneeling, or, in the case of one unfortunate man, lying on the ground with a broken leg.

'We're sorry, madame!' an unshaven thief said vehemently. 'You'll never hear of us again, we swear!'

'I should hope not,' Madame Giry said, then added mysteriously with an ominous little smile: 'Because you see, messieurs, there may not be any ghosts here any longer...but there _are_ vengeful spirits.'

* * *

The following day, when Docteur Bayard was out working once more, Lucie was sitting downstairs in the armchair beside the fireplace, busy at her embroidery. Although she would never admit it - and even if she could - she was effectively bored to tears. She had been living with her father for as long as she could remember, and though she loved the ageing doctor dearly, she could not help but long for a life _away_ from the Parisian town-house, away from these surroundings that were so monotonously familiar to her. But of course, to get away she would have to get married, and what man wanted a wife who could not speak to him? Certainly, she had been given glances and looks from the local young men, and even a few raised hats, but the most she could ever do in return was smile. Her silence tended to made others ignore her, or worse, think she was a complete fool, too stupid to even speak. This was why she left the house so rarely...and yet even at home her own silence tormented her. She knew her father loved her, of course she did, but...he had gotten so used to her not replying that he now talked to the maid more than he talked to her, simply because the woman could answer him. This was a silly thing to fret about, she knew very well, yet it still made her feel an odd sense of...bitterness. And that feeling, she found, was very much reminiscent of the emotion she could so often see in the freakishly golden eyes of her father's patient, Erik.

Lucie seemed to feel an odd sort of _affinity_ towards Erik...she knew, by watching his actions and listening to his occasional words, that he, too, had been given his own share of pain. And judging by all she had seen and heard, his share of pain had been so great that he had been driven to semi-insanity by it. The poor man...if only there was a way to comfort him, to heal him...

A shadow by the staircase moved. Lucie started in shock as she realised it had been Erik himself all along, standing and watching, as silent as her.

_Are you well, monsieur_? she asked him anxiously with her eyes and a slight sideways tilt of the head, recalling his distress the last time she had seen him.

Erik's facial expression was fully hidden by his mask, but she fancied that he gave a small nod in reply. _Oh what a pair we are! _she thought. _Both of us unable to express ourselves...he uses words to show what his face cannot, and I use my expressions to show what I cannot say..._

Erik watched Lucie, ponderingly. She fascinated him in some respects...he found the way she substituted words with subtle gestures and expressions very interesting indeed. Throughout the course of his life he had discovered and mastered many languages, but he had seen none like this strange language of the eyes and positioning of the head. Two people could have an entire conversation that would be heard by nobody, because there was nothing at all to hear! This concept intrigued him. However, at the moment, there were more important matters at hand...

'There are some purchases I would like to make,' he said to her, and she nodded. 'I shall return before noon.' Seeing her give a small smile and a wave of the fingers in the direction of the front door, he left the house, eager to find replacements for those infernal second-hand clothes that he wore.

* * *

Madame Giry had searched for a very, very long time indeed, and her final results were not at all satisfying; all she had found for the amount of francs Erik possessed was a small apartment, which he would inevitably have to share with another person. She cursed the fact that Paris was getting so crowded...so many immigrants from the country! Though she approved of diversity, she now resented the extra inhabitants of Paris because there were consequently so few cheap apartments for sale or rent. It was with a heavy heart but determined face that she went back to Docteur Bayard's house, ready to break some more bad news.

When she arrived, the Docteur himself greeted her, and let her into the hallway, where the sunlight danced on the walls.

'I have found _one_ apartment for a very reasonable price indeed, but unfortunately he will have to share it with a _co-locataire_,' explained Madame Giry to Bayard. 'There is already a young gentleman living there, and he has been having trouble with the rent, which he wishes to share...oh, I sincerely hope this is a good idea...it is so hard to tell, with Erik...'

'Do not worry yourself, madame, if it does not end well, he always has a place here,' reassured Bayard kindly, making Madame Giry smile. 'Should we not tell him the news, then? I believe he is in the living room, at the moment...'

Erik was indeed in the living room, sitting amongst the cushions across from Lucie. She was perched on the big armchair, and he was on the edge of the couch, having a very interesting conversation with her. He was mastering her subtle language, and though a great part of his face was covered, his eyes were very expressive indeed, which helped him to no end. He was just in the middle of an ostentatious twirl of the fingers and slight widening of the eyes when the door squeaked. Erik inwardly cursed this interruption, turning his head sharply to face the doorway. Madame Giry stood on the threshold, looking a little nervous but determined.

'Erik...' she began, 'I have found you an apartment...'

* * *

The apartment in question, Erik found the next day, was not far from Bayard's house, nor the Opéra. However, it was very small, cramped...and worse, already inhabited.

'Bonjour, monsieur!' a young man with light, wavy brown hair said brightly, walking up to Erik, who was standing poker-straight. 'I am Théodore d'Amecourt, and I am very pleased to meet you indeed!'

'I am...Erik.' He noticed the young devil's pale green eyes lingering curiously on his mask, and was sorely tempted to remove it and scare the bumptious idiot away for sure.

D'Amecourt seemed slightly thrown off by Erik's restrictive reply, but neverless shrugged and said, with a final glance at the white mask: 'Well, er...I suppose we all have our...particularities...'

He motioned for Erik to enter the small, cluttered apartment, and walked over to the window. 'You know, I'm more or less in hiding myself...I've run away from my family for the moment, you see, in favour of _la vie libre_...but, of course, it is not as free as I had hoped,' d'Amecourt prattled on, heedless of Erik's growing discomfort. 'I could only afford this little apartment; it belonged to some old person who died and left a tremendous load of odds and ends behind. I hope it doesn't bother you too much...'

'No...no, it does not,' replied Erik. What luck...he would be spending an indefinite amount of time cooped up with an over-friendly empoverished aristocrat. He had half a mind to leave, right now, while he still could...

'Would you care for some tea?' d'Amecourt said gaily with a breezy smile. Erik shuddered inwardly but replied kindly enough: 'No thank you, I would rather put my belongings in my bedroom first.'

With that, he left the startled d'Amecourt and made his way through heaps of piled bric-à-brac and voluminous, antique furniture until he arrived in the room that was to be his bedroom. It was very small indeed, almost claustrophobic in its size, but Erik frankly could not care less at that moment. This room was sure to become his personal island in the frustrating sea of the shared apartment. He walked up to the dirty, singular window that let a glow of faint grey light into the room. The window was fully functional, able to open but a little bit rusty on the hinges, its paint flaking and peeling. He closed it again, then sat down on the low bed which groaned and creaked even under his light weight. His new nightshirt (how glad he was to be no longer obliged to wear the Docteur's cotton horrors...) was folded up in its box, and it was the only thing he had brought to the apartment as it was the only thing he owned, apart from the tastefully sombre clothes he was currently wearing. Erik wearily put his head in his hands, staring down dejectedly at the dusty carpet. Oh, this place would be the death of him. He despised close proximity to strangers, since nothing good had ever come of it for him. He greatly preferred to keep his distance from this d'Amecourt person; at least, what distance he could in these cramped rooms...

Yellow eyes filled with annoyance, Erik took in his surroundings. Flaking, damp-stained wallpaper...dust everywhere...an old tasselled lamp and an empty, domed birdcage heaped on a low table...a fraying, patterned cloth...a gold-framed mirror...

He leapt to his feet, and slowly walked over to it with wide eyes. A _mirror_...what more was there to torture himself with in this room? It seemed the whole world was against him now...

Trembling slightly, Erik tentatively leaned closer to the mirror. On the other side of the glass, an unkempt, masked man with coal-black hair that fell in straggling elf-locks to the base of his neck peered back at him mistrustfully with yellow eyes. Erik stared at the man appraisingly. They were old, old enemies, the man and Erik. Their hatred of each other went back a long time indeed.

'What a fine mess you are in now, eh?' mocked the man in the mirror softly, his mouth curled in an unkind sneer. 'Even death would not take you, so monstrous you are!'

Erik's teeth bared in a snarl, and the man gave him a look of equal resentment before the former snatched up the patterned cloth and threw it over the mirror, hiding the latter from sight.

'Stay hidden were you belong!' he growled at the covered mirror, glad he could no longer see the monstrous vision. Mirrors had always vexed him terribly; he had kept so many in his lair because he was so ironically careful about his appearance. He would spend so long facing the hateful man on the other side of the glass, simply to be able to adjust his mask until he was sure not an inch of damaged skin was visible. But of course, sometimes the sight of that man would become too much and he would be forced to throw a cover over the mirrors, purely for the sake of blocking the man's off-putting glares and glances. Every time Erik would look at a mirror, the man would be simply watching him, watching from behind his mask. It was more than he could stand...

* * *

That evening, when a safe blanket of darkness had spread over Paris, Erik left his bedroom and wove his way through the piled junk to the front door.

'Where are you headed, monsieur?' came a jovial voice. He cursed silently.

'There are some errands I wish to run,' he replied. 'I must purchase some more garments.'

'Oh, then let me accompany you!' said d'Amecourt, good-naturedly coming towards him, and he became simply unshakeable. 'I can show you the area -'

'That will not be necessary; I am already well acquainted with it.'

'Well, then, I shall show you where to find good prices and good quality for clothes,' persisted the young man. _Poor idiot_, thought Erik. _He is so starved of company that he will cling to anybody_.

With _excruciating_ reluctance, Erik allowed d'Amecourt to follow him into town. The pair of them walked silently through the darkening streets, in between the rows of tall, straight buildings. Erik had put up the collar of his coat to conceal the stark white of his mask, and though d'Amecourt noticed this, he thankfully did not make any comment.

As they made their way together through the town, buffetted by a slight wind that still smelled of coffee from the local cafés, Erik found himself once more vehemently wishing he was far, far from here - especially from that young bourgeois idiot trotting absently beside him...

_Oh, misery._


	5. Chapter 5: Ghosts of the Past

_**A/N:**__** Oh, dear, I think I've fainted. So many wonderful reviews!! Thank you so, so, SO much to GhostOfMusic (I was so worried about that last chapter, I'd written it so hastily! But luckily it doesn't seem as bad as I'd thought...and I'd wanted Erik to have a little crazy mirror moment), AlixUnmasqued (hooray! I'm so glad!), HDKingsbury (Wow - publicity! And you reviewed three whole chapters, too!! I agree that it's hard to find fics you like, which is partly why I decided to write a fic of my own, a fic that included what I wanted to read about, myself. I thank my own lucky stars that I have such a kind reviewer!), Pertie (yes, the rat-eating was not very appealing, but it was so fun to write! You're right about Lucie, too - she does feel for Erik, because she heard her father's description of his deformity, and knows about his pain. And yes, Erik has been more or less shoved into the real world, and has to cope with the friendly Théodore who thinks he's just found another person in hiding - which he is, but not in the way he thinks it), and speedy56 (I'm glad you like this kind of Erik! I myself never did feel moved quite as much by the handsomer Eriks; sometimes other peoples' horror and disgust can seem exaggerated and melodramatic if only a very small part of his face is deformed...). Wow, I'm so happyyy...! I was so unsure at the start whether to post this fic because I was doubtful of my sentence structure, and whether I'd actually be able to keep writing without losing inspiration...well, I'm glad I did after all!**_

_**Right...this chapter I find more satisfying than the hastiness of Chapter 4, probably because I wasn't typing away at 2 in the morning. :)**_

_**(Oh, yes, and a few notes on pronunciations before it slips my mind again: I've noticed that most French words - with a lot of exceptions, though - have more stress on the second syllable than the first, as is the case with English words. So Bayard is pronounced "ba-YAR", Lucie "lu-CI", d'Amecourt "dammer-COUR", and, errr...that's about it, I think. Ooh...and just out of general interest, in the French-dubbed version of PotO, they pronounce "Chagny" a bit like "Chagné" sometimes...I found that funny) Anyway, enjoy!**_

* * *

The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, highlighting the topmost branches of the trees that were scattered about the green, tidy fields. The sharp, sweet scent of fresh grass clung to the illuminated meadows, intermingling with the woody fragrance of a log fire as it rolled across the countryside on a light, cool wind. A few cottages were visible near the small nearby forest, their roofs gleaming gold-grey in the sunlight while their chimneys sent thin spirals of smoke into the wintry sky.

Christine de Chagny stood still on the balcony, leaning slightly upon the iron filigree railing as she blissfully admired the view. She loved this time of day, when the sun was still bright but just low enough to give everything a golden shimmer. It made her feel so calm and content, even if the wind was a little chilly at times...

_Gold_, thought Christine, observing the glowing branches of the bare trees. _What an interesting colour it is. Gold like the sun. Gold like shining francs dropping onto a counter. Gold like rich, thick home-made honey. Gold like bright, beautiful sunflower fields..._Her smile faded as a memory rose unbidden. _Gold like a pair of haunted eyes as they disappeared forever into the underground gloom -_

She snapped out of her reverie abruptly. The wind seemed so cold of a sudden...she shivered, drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She did not wish to be plagued with such troubling thoughts in this haven of peace and easy living. How she tried to rid herself of those terrible, terrible memories, but oh, how they still tormented her!

'Christine?'

She turned about, and saw her husband standing in the doorway that led from the bedroom to the balcony, his hair stirring in the breeze. The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny smiled at her gently, and she whole-heartedly returned his smile as he came to join her. Fondly, he came behind Christine and wrapped his arms around her, all the better to look at the splendid view with her. He kissed the side of her head lovingly, and blissfully breathed in the soft perfume of her curls. No words could describe how glad he was, now that she was safe here with him in his own home outside of Paris...he and Christine had been married for almost two months now, but still he could not get used to the simple joy of waking to find her asleep beside him.

They had been wed as soon as they possibly could, only days after Raoul had taken a stricken and tearful Christine to his home following the incident at the Opéra. The poor girl had wept so much for the horrific beast they had left behind, but she had been even more thankful that she was free, free to experience a long and happy life by Raoul's side. But even as they wordlessly vowed to enjoy their lives rather than dwell on the past, bad memories still came, as well as unwanted reminders. At their wedding, Raoul had been obliged to wear a high-collared shirt to conceal the long, ghastly purple bruise that ringed his throat; the bruise that took so long to fade, remaining a stubborn, physical imprint of the Phantom's wrathful violence. Although the pair of them often laughed at their wedding portrait, where Raoul looked so wonderfully uncomfortable in his chin-scraping collar, beneath their good humour there always lurked a memory, a terrible image of Raoul choking at the end of the Punjab lasso. It was an image that neither of them could ever be rid of, however much they wished it.

Raoul held Christine closer to him, and, feeling a gust of chilly wind, murmured to her: 'Are you not cold out here?'

'A little, yes,' she replied softly, gazing out across the fields.

'Then why do you stand here so stubbornly?' teased Raoul, resting his cheek against her affectionately. Christine gave a heavy, mournful sigh.

'I just cannot help thinking of him,' she blurted out hopelessly, her eyes full of sadness. 'I feel I shall go mad with the memories! It's awful, Raoul...all I can think about is the way he just stood and watched as we left...and those eyes of his...!'

Raoul gently turned her round and touched the side of her face comfortingly. 'Christine, the dream is behind us now. The Phantom is gone from our lives...'

She nodded bravely, wiping away the tears that had been about to spill down her face. 'Yes...you are right,' she whispered. Oh, how confused her thoughts of Erik were! She pitied him, she hated him and she feared him all at once...she understood that he was tortured by his own life and needed nothing more than sympathy and kindness, but at the same time he was so changeable, flying into terrible rages and even _killing_...Christine frowned slightly as a thought occurred to her, and said: 'But I do wonder whether...whether he is dead...'

Raoul sighed. 'If he is, then perhaps it is better for him. The man was insane, after all...he would not have been happy to go on living in this world...'

'I suppose so,' murmured Christine, then took Raoul's proffered arm and went indoors with him.

* * *

Erik lay on the bed in his dim bedroom, glowering up at the green rings of mould on the ceiling. _I wish I were dead_, he thought bitterly, sitting up. _I am far from happy to go on living in this cursèd world..._

He picked up the round hat-box that lay beside him. He had recently purchased a rather nice, wide-brimmed black hat that would effectively cover his masked face from unwanted stares. There was nothing he hated more on this earth than being gawped at; he had had enough of that when he had been a child. The long, criss-crossing scars that slashed across his back twinged at the memory, and Erik narrowed his eyes, picking up the string that had been tied around the hat-box. Absent-mindedly he twiddled with it, his thoughts wandering. He recalled the squalor and discomfort of the straw-lined cage, the sharp sting of the whip as it came down upon him...he got up, unable to sit still any longer, and walked over to the window, which had been left open to air out the musty odour of the room. The screams and gasps and exclamations of a thousand different strangers, their faces blurred and indistinct in his mind. So many different faces, but their expressions never changed from horror, disgust or fear...Erik twirled and twisted the string in his hands with even more violence. To his surprise, he found his fingers beginning to move of their own accord, performing the actions he had repeated countless times in the past. _Loop around once, twice, three times, pull third loop through, close the first and second, tighten_...

A thinner version of his Punjab lasso now lay across his trembling palms. Erik looked down at it fearfully, then narrowed his eyes. Would the past never leave him?

There was a flurry of movement on his window-sill. His head turned sharply to look at it, and he saw that a small brown bird had perched in front of his window, heedless of him, bobbing it round body as it looked out towards the street. Erik's fingers slowly wrapped around the knotted string, drawing it out while he stared at the bird. His eyes flickered from the creature to the old cage, and then back again. There was no harm in trying, surely...

Erik crept forwards slowly, never making a sound. The bird bobbed and chirruped merrily, unaware of his looming presence. Questions boiled in Erik's mind; had his skills faded over time? If he needed to defend himself in the future, would he be able to? Was he still as quick, despite the fact that he lacked practice?

He was now right in front of the window. He opened the loop as the bird spread out its wings, ready to glide down -

The loop-end of the string came flying towards it from the window, landing neatly around its body. Not even a split second later, Erik had pulled it tight, pinning the bird's wings to its body. The feathered creature tried to flutter, falling on its side instead, chirping loudly but unable to escape from the loop that held it. Erik's lips curled into a pleased smile. His skills had not faded the slightest bit, it seemed. He reached out a hand and picked up the tiny shivering bird in his bony fingers. Its feathers felt glossy and smooth and warm against his palm...he gazed at it for a moment, feeling the life beating between his fingertips, then walked over to the large, ornate birdcage. Once the door on it had been opened, he gently put his hand through it, then, with the utmost care, released the bird from its bonds. Closing the door again, he picked up the cage and set it down on a flatter surface, watching the small bird hop about inside it. The poor creature jumped into the air, fluttering hopelessly against the wire bars while Erik gazed at it with calm, yellow eyes. _Hmm...I wonder..._

An old gypsy trick came back to him; he had seen something like this before, once many years ago. It was a form of hypnotism, in a way, that involved the voice rather than a repetitively moving object...

Reaching his hand back into the cage, Erik drew out the bird, and turned it carefully so its little black eyes were facing him. Fixing it with a steady, constant gaze, he pitched his voice to a low and soothing frequency, and proceeded to murmur to it without cease. For a long while he stood there, stock-still, eyes fixed on the bird, softly talking to it without stopping. His voice was beginning to have a calming effect on the creature, and it blinked its bright eyes, seeming to listen. Erik murmured gently to it for a while more, then smiled and opened his hand. The bird did not move, simply lying on its back, dazed and serene. With a grin of triumph, he put it back into its cage, breaking the strange enchantment his voice had put on it. Now fully awake, the bird did not flutter and try to free itself, but stayed relatively still, hopping around the bottom of the cage. Its wildness had left it.

Erik stepped back from the cage, hands on his hips as he contemplated the small brown bird in its prison. He smiled grimly.

'It seems you and I are in the same boat now, my friend,' he told the oblivious creature musingly.

There was a light knock at the door of Erik's dark bedroom. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists, as d'Amecourt entered the room, carrying a candle in a chipped holder.

'_Bonsoir_! _Vous allez bien_? Are you alright?' he asked jovially, with a helpful smile. 'I managed to find a candle for you; I'm afraid the oil-lamps are down again...' He placed the candle on the dresser, where it produced a very feeble, pale light. 'A nightmare, the lamps in this place...but I do so hate using candles, you know -'

'And why is that?' enquired Erik dispassionately.

D'Amecourt frowned at him. 'Did you not hear about the great fire at the Opéra Populaire, a few streets away?' he said incredulously. 'It was all the newspapers would talk about for the whole week following it...apparently a chandelier there fell down, and all the candles simply set the entire place alight within minutes. I don't know whether it was just shoddy workmanship or sabotage that made the thing fall down in the first place, but it's certainly made the whole of Paris more careful with their candles!' He laughed, but Erik remained stonily silent, an odd look on his face behind the blank mask. Unsure of the expression that darkened Erik's eyes, d'Amecourt cleared his throat. 'Er...oh! Who's this?' Looking around absently, he had spotted the bird in its cage, and he leant down to peer at it. 'What a dear little creature! I don't recall you bringing this fellow in...'

'I didn't,' replied Erik acidly. 'I caught it this afternoon.'

'Oh...' D'Amecourt seemed very impressed indeed, his green eyes wide and his eyebrows raised as he nodded slowly. Realising his tone had been a bit cutting, Erik added, less harshly: 'His name is Hermès.'

'Indeed? How delightful!' said d'Amecourt, boyishly peering at the now-sleeping bird.

'I shall find some birdseed in town tomorrow,' Erik went on, mostly to himself. 'But now I shall probably be sleeping.'

'Ah, yes, very well...I'd better leave you then,' d'Amecourt said, remembering himself. 'Goodnight, Monsieur Erik!'

'Goodnight,' replied Erik in a tone that suggested he was addressing a brainless five-year-old. D'Amecourt left the room, and he was once more in blissful solitude. Erik ran his fingers through his hair, and touched the knot of fraying black ribbon that tied his mask in place. Of course he was not going to sleep now - he had only said that to be rid of d'Amecourt. He knew the man meant well, but d'Amecourt did not seem to understand who it was that he shared an apartment with...

Erik sat on his bed and watched the candle burn. His gaze never moved from it as it gradually dripped its wax, growing shorter and more gnarled as it reached the end of its life. _Like an old man_, mused Erik. _Tall, straight and handsome to begin with, then bent and twisted and knobbled as it aged._ His mouth twitched in displeasure as he realised he himself had never been handsome, as young men were considered to be. Tall and straight he may well have been, but _handsome_...hah! He could have laughed. Anyhow, he knew he was no longer young. When it came to his own age, Erik could only guess at it. However, he was certain he was not in his twenties, but still not yet in his forties...perhaps he was around four-and-thirty years of age? More? Less? He did not know; the only thing he was sure about was that he felt very old already. No, he felt older than old - he felt like a _dead_ man, and looked like one too!

Sighing angrily, he got to his feet, adjusting his mask, and walked over to the candle as it flickered out, consuming the last of its wick. Erik poked at the hardening lump of melted wax with fingers still roughened with the blisters gained from his final piano piece, and he tilted his head to one side. The shape of the wax reminded him of a stout, bowing man, his hands together and head inclined. A smile of amusement flickered across his lips. The candle bows out...

Interest suddenly lighted within him, Erik picked up the candle holder, and tipped out the lump of wax. It was still warm, and easily malleable. Eyes down, he swiftly began to shape it, to give it a more distinct form...now he was beginning to clearly see the bowing man. His deft fingers pressed the wax, neatly removing the excess flakes as his tiny sculpture was formed. The joy of modelling and creating slowly came back to him; he could make anything he wanted - the material always bent to his will, taking whatever shape he desired! It was a magnificent thing, to create frozen, life-like beings from an inanimate lump of wax. In a short amount of time, the little wax man was completed. He looked very realistic indeed, everything perfect down to the hair on his head and the creases around his bashful smile. A small white bowing figure, so believable one could almost think it alive...

A smile stretched Erik's lips. Another passion had risen within him, and tomorrow he would be doubtlessly be purchasing a fair amount of clay...

* * *

The marketplace was full of bustling people, hurrying about their business and purchases. Vendors shouted out their bargains whenever they felt they were not getting enough customers, and crowds thronged around all of the stalls. Nobody paid much attention to the tall, black-clad man who wore a high-collared cloak and a wide-brimmed hat that covered most of his unusually pale face as he strode through the market. Erik had seen a stall that had large heaps of seeds upon it, with small signs stuck in them that read their price per hundred grams. He had already bought some clay, and a few lovely blocks of stone that would surely make more lasting models, as well as the necessary tools. Now all that there was left to purchase was some seeds for his new friend Hermès.

The stall-keeper was surprised to see such an odd character approach his stall, but the promise of a sale erased his nervousness. The tall, thin man's face was hidden by his low hat and high collar, but his smooth voice came clearly enough. '_Je voudrais deux-cent grammes de ces graines_-_là_,' the man said politely, indicating one of the coppery-brown heaps of seeds with an elegant gloved finger. The vendor caught sight of the man's white shirt-cuff that showed from his coat's sleeve, upon which a small enamel death's head shirt-button was sewed.

'_Bien sûr_, monsieur,' replied the stall-keeper hurriedly, scooping seeds into a paper bag and weighing it.

After Erik had paid, he turned to make his way back to the apartment, when he felt a barely perceptible weight in the pocket of his surtout, a weight that moved slightly when he moved to go -

Erik's cold, skeletal fingers came down sharply onto his pocket, grabbing the small warm hand that had slipped into it, nearly crushing it in his steely grasp. He turned and glared furiously at the young, grimy boy who had dared to try and steal from him. The poor child whimpered both in pain from the icy grip almost breaking his wrist, and in fear from the pair of unearthly yellow eyes that stared down at him, full of rage.

'_Pitié_!' cried the small boy, feeling as if his wrist-bone was about to snap. 'Pray don't kill me, monsieur!'

'Ha! _La pitié_...' said Erik scornfully. What good had pity ever done for him? Why should he pity those who did not deserve it - there was nobody in the world with a worse fate than he!

But the young thief was snivelling, and people were beginning to stare. With an angry sigh, Erik relinquished his grip on the child's wrist.

'What is your name, boy?' he asked sternly.

'Jacques, m'sieur,' replied the pickpocket timidly. 'But everyone calls me Petit Jacquot because I'm small.'

'Petit Jacquot, eh? You look more like a Corbin,' remarked Erik, head to one side. 'Your hair is so dark - as are your garments - that you remind me rather of a crow. Or, should I say, a magpie.'

The young boy giggled nervously, transfixed by the golden eyes, unsure whether or not he had been forgiven.

'I am sure your mother would not be pleased with what you occupy yourself with, young Corbin,' said Erik.

The child looked bemused. 'The _gendarmes_ took my Maman away a few days ago,' he said. 'For being dis...dis-or-dererely.'

_Oh, what tragedy_, thought Erik unkindly. _There was nothing wrong with my own mother, except that she gave birth to _me.

'How unfortunate. And your father?'

'Don't know where he is, m'sieur,' said Corbin. 'But I live with some friends now.'

'Very well,' answered Erik, beginning to feel rather unconcerned. In a strange moment of generosity, though, he found himself tipping a few coins into Corbin's grubby hand. 'This should feed you if you spend it wisely. Now get out of my sight.'

The little boy obliged hastily, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran away as fast as he could. Erik pulled his hat lower, seeing the curious glances directed at him. As he walked back to the apartment, he silently seethed. Giving coins to an undeserving little urchin! What was becoming of him? Why was he being so merciful when he had been shown nothing but hatred and coldness for his entire life?

He must be ailing from something, he thought as he disappeared into the dark alley that led to the apartment.


	6. Chapter 6: A Great Misfortune

_**A/N:**__** What a lovely time I had, reading all those reviews! Really made my day. Thanks go to MadLizzy (I'm so glad you like it! And argh, yes, I hadn't seen that awful character slip in Lucie...thanks so much for pointing it out! I've now changed the location to the larger, brighter, safer "living room"...and the door, too, is considerably more open...:) Haha, I knew I HAD to have Erik thinking out a little knot-tying action...I had no idea **_**how**_** a Punjab lasso is tied, so I just described this diagram I found of how to tie a "Strangle-Snare" knot instead, which sounded **_**very**_** Erik. I think it's a simpler version of the gallows Multifold-Overhand knot...Erik hanging himself? Hmm...that **_**would**_** be very fitting indeed! However, the story ends in a different way...:)), HDKingsbury (Yay! I wanted to include one of Erik's Dark Moments, where we get to see some remaining traces of the Phantom rise up in him. He wasn't exactly going to sit home and cry about those thieves...he's a bit of a vengeful person. ;D), dreamysherry (Thank you!!), GhostOfMusic (I did think that people might believe for a second that Erik was going to kill the bird, so I put the "glanced at the birdcage" bit as a clue. The birdcage design is inspired from the beautiful little Victorian birdcage I got for Christmas. Heehee, I never did approve of the "mean" Raouls I have so often read about...because in the actual story, it's Erik who's the villain - he's misunderstood, but he is still seen as the villain by almost all of the other characters - and Raoul is the loveable person with very few faults. But of course, I still like Erik more! ;) Oh yes...I did actually have breaks between my paragraphs, but there's something strange going on with the uploader thingy, or the browser, I think...it double-spaces everywhere I've hit the "enter" key, and erases the wider gaps I've added. If anybody knows how to remedy this, please please tell me! I added little stars between the paragraphs, but for some reason it erased them too. It really has something against me…So for the mo I've added some dashes between them, so the breaks are there. You're right, patience has definitely paid off!), Pertie (I would certainly be bothered if those events happened to me:D Raoul and Christine **_**did**_** leave more or less arm-in-arm at the end, so why should they be having a difficult marriage, is what I thought. Glad you like it!), speedy56 (you're right…selfish Erik. XD), and GerrysJackie (so happy you like it, even though you like Gerik more :D)**_

_**Whew. So...I might as well warn you, there are only three chapters left, not including this one. I am slowing down a bit so I don't rush it and make a complete mess of it! I've never been able to write very long, 68-chapter stories...I find short and sweet (or terribly bitter, in this case) more feasible for me. I hope you don't mind...**_

_**Enjoy!**_Théodore Etienne d'Amecourt sat at the rickety table, perched on an equally rickety chair. The candles standing all around cast a dim orange glow over the untidy main room, illuminating the piles of old belongings that d'Amecourt hadn't had the heart to throw out. The shiny dinnerplate before him contained a modest meal that he himself had prepared a while earlier, and he ate quietly, the silence hanging heavy in the air. Across the table sat his strange new acquaintance, the man named Erik, who was eating very neatly indeed, eyes never leaving his plate as he appeared lost in thought. D'Amecourt found him a very curious fellow indeed; he seemed normal enough in his white shirt and black waistcoat (though perhaps a bit on the thin side), but it was his odd white mask that made him so particular. He felt a little hurt that the man he shared his apartment with would not divulge his true identity to him. Perhaps this "Erik" was a very well-known person, not just a runaway aristocrat like d'Amecourt himself? Why else would he wear a mask and not have a surname?

* * *

D'Amecourt watched Erik across the table. He was sure he was a nice chap really, if he would only talk...

And then there was that business with the blocks of stone. That really confused d'Amecourt; what purpose could those stone blocks possibly serve the man? To prop his bed higher? He did not know. Ah, never mind. Perhaps it was just another of the man's little oddities...

Suddenly there came a soft rapping noise. 'Hmm,' remarked d'Amecourt. 'That doesn't sound like the pipes, for once...I think there is somebody at the door. Most unusual! Excuse me, Erik...' He rose from the table and picked his way across the room, hoping it was not somebody unwelcome, like the tax collector or the _propriétaire_ -

He pulled open the door, and his eyes widened at the sight of a young woman with neatly tied dark hair and blue eyes standing outside. She wore a rather nice pale blue dress with a matching bonnet, and she looked very timid. D'Amecourt smiled widely at her; it wasn't often that young women came to his door!

'Oh! Hello there,' he said, unconsciously smoothing back his wavy red-brown locks. 'What can I do for you, miss?'

Although d'Amecourt had put on his most charming air, she still seemed very shy of him. What was more, she remained silent, as if wondering what to say...

'Lucie?'

D'Amecourt turned around. Erik had left the table, too, presumably on his way to hide in his bedroom while a guest of d'Amecourt's was in. He had peered past d'Amecourt and seen the rather nervous-looking young woman standing in front of him, unable to say a word.

'Ah - so this is an acquaintance of yours, Erik?' d'Amecourt remarked, surprised. Who would have thought such an odd man would have such a charming lady friend? Oh, well; every train has its carriage, as his grandmother used to say...

For some reason, the young woman still did not speak, but her face lit up with a lovely smile upon seeing Erik. D'Amecourt stepped out of the way as Erik came forwards to meet her.

'What brings you here?' asked Erik immediately, sounding a little anxious.

The young woman, Lucie, gave a tiny shrug of the shoulders, head to one side while looking up at him almost apologetically. Her eyebrows twitched upwards slightly, but d'Amecourt did not hear her answer him.

'Ah...very well, then...I suppose you should come in,' Erik said, confusing d'Amecourt as he looked on. Lucie followed Erik into the apartment, looking around in vague surprise, before being motioned to sit in an ancient, overstuffed armchair. D'Amecourt watched as Erik sat opposite her, elegantly resting one long leg over the other, and then the two of them proceeded to simply gaze at each other, without saying a single word. Of course, there was the occasional tilted head and raised eyebrow, but neither of them made a sound. D'Amecourt cleared his throat. 'Er...I shall be in the...kitchen,' he said, and bemusedly left the room.

Erik watched d'Amecourt exit, thankful the young imbecile was leaving. His eyes flickered in the eye-holes of his mask back to Lucie, who looked vaguely amused on d'Amecourt's behalf.

_So that is your co-locataire?_ her expression asked him.

His mouth tightened and he nodded. _Indeed. _Then he frowned at her, curious. _Why did you say that you "simply wished to see me"?_

It was Lucie's turn to frown, but this time in confusion, her eyes narrowing perplexedly. Erik realised that this was too complicated a phrase to say in expression-form when one's face is almost entirely hidden. Frustrated, he had no other choice but to say it in the conventional way: 'I did not understand why you told me that you came here to simply see me. Surely there is more to it than that...'

Lucie's face did not move, but the emotion deep within her eyes was enough to speak for itself. Erik sat transfixed, unable to look away from the sheer horror of what he saw; he recognised the terrible, lethal softness of that feeling all too well. _No_, thought Erik. _No, no, no, no! Pity - it can only be pity! It _must_ be pity...nothing more...oh, no, no, NO!_

Apparently noticing the look of distress that widened Erik's own eyes, Lucie leant forwards, brow creased in worry. _Erik? Are you unwell?_ Her warm, soft hand reached out and gently rested upon his own eerily cold, scarred and scabbed one. Completely overwhelmed, Erik sharply snatched his hand away from hers in a very unmannerly way, making her expression of concern change suddenly to an expression of hurt.

'I think it would be better for you to leave now, mademoiselle,' Erik uttered coldly, not looking at her. Even though his gaze was averted and his face turned away, he could still see out of the corner of his eye how upset she looked. Slowly, shakily, she rose, head bowed and elbows held close to her sides, hands together. Still he refused to look at her, though it hurt him, too. But it was necessary...he had to stop this before it was far too late...the foolish girl did not know what she was getting herself into. No, this was definitely the right thing to do...yet why did it hurt so?

Lucie shamefully rushed from him, picking up her skirts and dodging between the piles of old odds and ends before swiftly leaving through the front door. Once she had disappeared from sight, Erik sighed, feeling the familiar dark sting of bitterness in his chest. _It _must _have been pity...what else could it have been?_

'Erik - _mais pourquoi avez-vous fait une chose pareil?_ Whyever did you do something like that?' came an indignant male voice from across the room. D'Amecourt, at a loss what to do in the tiny kitchen, had apparently been spying on the final part of Erik and Lucie's "conversation", and though he had obviously understood very little of it, he seemed shocked by Erik's cruelty towards the poor girl. Erik sighed impatiently, glaring at him.

'It is not deemed proper, monsieur, to eavesdrop on the conversations of other people,' he growled testily, but this did not quieten d'Amecourt.

'Throwing out innocent young ladies in such a boorish manner is what _I_ do not deem proper!' exclaimed the young man, surprising Erik with his nerve and sudden anger. Leaving the masked man more or less stunned, d'Amecourt flew from the room, running through the doorway and out of the dingy apartment.

* * *

'Mademoiselle!'

Lucie looked up from the ground at the sound of the voice, the wind chilling her wet cheeks as she turned. A young man with auburn wavy hair was running towards her, the thin layer of newly-fallen snow on the ground crunching beneath his feet. Only as he stopped in front of her did she recognise him as the man who shared the apartment with Erik. What could he possibly want?

The young man caught his breath, clutching his chest, then looked at her with grey-green eyes full of anxiety. 'I'm terribly sorry about Erik...it shocks me, frankly, to see how uncivilised he can be...' he said, taking in her pale, tear-stained face with worry. He gazed at her a while more, and she found herself quite touched by his concern for her. Abruptly, as if remembering himself, the young man rummaged in his pockets and drew out a rather creased but perfectly clean white handkerchief with a maroon hem. This he handed to her, and she abashedly but gratefully mopped the tears from her eyes. He gave her an encouraging smile, which she found herself returning. She only wished she could properly express her gratitude to him...

'I don't believe we've met before,' he said. 'I am Théodore d'Amecourt. What is your name?'

Lucie gave a small, soft sigh; she had been through situations like this countless times, but still she sometimes found it hard to get her point across to a stranger. She vaguely indicated her mouth, shaking her head with a look of remorse. Understanding dawned on Théodore's face, and he raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't realise you couldn't - ' he gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh, 'I truly am quite dense at times...! Please forgive me...' Lucie put a hand on his arm to put a halt to his ashamed babbling, and nodded her head with a gentle smile. _Don't worry yourself so. Everybody makes mistakes..._

He ran his fingers through his hair, then said, amusedly: 'So there is truly no way of me knowing your name...?' Lucie countered him with vigorous nodding of the head, then indicated the ground, where the snow that had fallen that evening was still fresh. He looked down to where she showed, and then she gracefully pointed the toe of her kidskin boot, raising her skirts slightly so that she did not step on them. Finding his gaze drawn inexorably to the couple of inches of stockinged calf consequently exposed, d'Amecourt blinked rapidly. _Oh, my! What a nice leg..._seizing control of himself, he looked to what she was doing, and noticed she had traced a word in the snow with the tip of her boot.

_Lucie_.

He beamed at her.

'Lucie?' he said. 'That's a charming name, indeed.' She gave a modest smile in thanks. This Théodore person was quite gallant! Remembering, she handed him back his slightly damp handkerchief. 'Oh...thank you.'

For a few seconds they stood in silence, unsure what to say or do, then Théodore cleared his throat. 'Er...it's getting a little nippy out here; I think I had best be going inside,' he said, and Lucie nodded in agreement. 'I hope Erik does not behave like that again in future...goodnight!' And then he left her, with a wave. She waved back, then continued on her way home. Oh, Erik...she had forgotten him for a moment. She had only wanted to help him, to show him that she cared for him...perhaps she had been a little too forward. Oh, she didn't know _what_ it was that had made him dismiss her so abruptly! New tears stung her eyes, but she fiercely kept them back. Never mind; he probably needed more time, was all...

* * *

The metal felt cool against Erik's palm as he studied the block of stone before him. He ran a hand over its rough surface, tilting his head from side to side to observe all of its angles. Narrowing his eyes, he began to see _beyond_ the stone - to see what manner of creature was trapped inside it, and how he might free it...

The image came to him in a flash, his mouth tightening, and immediately he began to knock off large fragments of the block with his chisel, making a loud _clink_. His hands moved quickly, striking the chisel with the mallet, hearing the clatter of stone shards as they fell to the ground. On and on he stuck at the stone, falling into an effortless rhythm as he broke parts from the block. Soon the stone was no longer a crude rectangular shape, but in an odd, long, vaguely rounded form. Erik's eyes danced over it for a while, calculating, and then picked up a different chisel, tilting it expertly for a shallower stroke. Slowly his vision began to take form as he toiled over it, adding texture, taking away any excess fragments. Abruptly he dropped the chisel, then took another tool, refining his statue's shape, sculpting the finer details into it. His work consumed him for hours on end, and he did not even turn around when d'Amecourt entered to check what the noise was about. When Erik finally stepped back from it, eyes weary and hands covered with dust, d'Amecourt gasped.

'Oh, my...'

The statue was fairly simple, of a young woman shielding her face from something with her head turned downwards, but the detail of it was so fine - from the ripples of her dress to the intricate curls of her hair - that it appeared extraordinarily real. D'Amecourt forgot his anger towards the man in the face of his utter wonder. He had never known Erik possessed such _talent_...

'This is _beautiful_,' gasped d'Amecourt, gazing at the newly-made, strangely sad and painful statue. The way the young woman's body was twisted, her head turned away as if in horror...such a sensitive piece he had never seen in his life!

However, there was something still at the back of his mind. 'Erik...' said d'Amecourt, 'I've been meaning to tell you...you _must_ go and present your apologies to the girl who was here last night.'

Erik turned and scowled at him. 'Monsieur, I would advise you _not_ to meddle in my own affairs -'

'She was dreadfully upset!' interrupted d'Amecourt hotly. 'You even made the poor thing cry, for God's sake!' Erik's face still remained glowering and dark as he got to his feet.

'If you don't mind, Monsieur d'Amecourt, I would very much like to be alone for a moment,' he hissed. D'Amecourt glared back at him.

'Very well then! Since you seem to _adore_ solitude so much...goodnight!' the young man said, turning on his heel and leaving the room. Once he had closed the door behind him, Erik let out an angry sigh. Would the world never cease its torture of him? He had only been trying to make sure the future would not end like the past...

'At least you remain loyal to me, my friend,' Erik murmured to Hermès, who had been woken by the shouting and was now hopping around the floor of the cage. 'And I reward those few who do not betray me...' He put a pale hand in the paper bag beside the cage, and gave a small helping of seeds to the bird. Hermès immediately fluttered towards the food, tucking his wings back and pecking at the ground with his small, sharp beak. Erik watched the creature's contentment musingly, then drew away to lie down and catch a few short hours of tormented sleep.

* * *

The snow on the ground glistened brightly in the early morning sun, still pale and not yet trampled upon by the crowds that would arrive later on to walk the streets of Paris. Blue-grey smoke rose from the blackened chimneys of the tall houses into the pinkish sky, curling away on the wind. A thin figure wearing a heavy black cloak strode through the empty market, sweeping over the icy ground without ever slipping. Erik put his hands deep into his pockets, his breath billowing in faint clouds from beneath his hat. For him early mornings were second best to evenings and nights, since hardly anybody was awake.

However, it did seem that _some_ had already risen; he could hear the cries and delighted shrieks of a group of small children. Walking further, he noticed them; a small band of little boys, sliding and pushing each other across a large puddle of ice, flinging hard lumps of snow at each other. Erik's yellow eyes peered at them from the narrow gap between his cloak's collar and the brim of his hat. The sight of children at play had never really touched him, because he did not know how it felt to play as a small child with a group of friends. When he had been a boy, before the gypsies, long, long ago, his only companion had been himself. Of course, there had been other children who lived near his own home, but they had always played together in a group of their own, and he remembered watching their games at a distance. Always at a distance...and when they had all gone the younger Erik would try to play the others' games by himself, but it had never seemed _the same_...he had never felt the urge to scream with laughter or shout like the other children when they played. Erik sighed deep in his throat, narrowing his eyes as he continued past the cavorting boys. Now he was an adult, and he had his own grand games that beat the silly diversions of others by far -

Suddenly, something struck the back of his cloak with a wet _smack_. Erik stopped walking, frozen in place, and then slowly turned around.

All of the children had halted in their playing, and were staring at him with wide eyes. But one little boy, the smallest of them, looked more shocked, more horrified than the others, and it was obviously him who had thrown the snowball that was now dripping down Erik's back.

Slowly, unhurriedly, with a calm, deliberate walk full of menace, Erik came towards the boys. The children's faces were terrified now, all of their round eyes turned up to him as he loomed over them at twice their height. With his high collar and hat hiding his face, the man looked very frightening indeed, especially when he turned his burning yellow eyes upon each of the boys in turn, finally coming to rest upon the guilty child, whose knees were knocking together in fear. The black-haired boy looked ready to cry.

'Please, monsieur,' whimpered the child. 'I m-meant to throw it at Léon...I-I didn't mean -'

Unexpectedly, and to the children's great surprise, Erik's stern mouth suddenly curved into a smile.

'So, we meet again, Corbin,' he said, the light tone of his melodious voice making most of the boys' fear fade away.

The black-haired boy stared at Erik, then blushed as he recognised him.

'I had sincerely been hoping that you were keeping yourself out of trouble,' continued Erik delicately, 'but I see now that trouble only comes naturally to you. I can only hope that the next time we meet, it shall be in a more normal fashion -' He suddenly broke off, noticing another familiar figure sitting at the edge of the old fountain in the middle of the square. _Oh, dear_...

'I'm sorry, m'sieur,' said Corbin penitently, hanging his head. Erik looked back at him, then straightened himself.

'Consider yourself forgiven for the time being,' he said. 'But be more careful of your actions in future...now, I must leave you.' With that, he was gone in a sweep of his cloak, marching off across the square and through the stalls, leaving the boys standing stunned.

* * *

Lucie sat at the fountain's edge, looking up at the pink-yellow clouds as they moved across the sky. The fountain had been dry for years, but she had always liked to come and sit by it when nobody else was around. It was a place of calm for her, a place to think. But now she was not sure whether she wanted to think about last night's humiliation...

As she sat, she suddenly became aware of a presence near her. At first she thought it was one of the local young boys come to ask her to join in their games, and wondered how on earth she was going to tell them she just was not in the mood for it...but then the person spoke, with a voice too smooth and deep and vibrant to be that of a child's: 'Lucie?'

She looked up into the golden eyes of Erik, and then bowed her head again in shame. Was that pity she had heard in his voice? Pity for the poor stupid girl who had reached out for him in such a way?

_I'm sorry._

She heard Erik give a soft sigh.

'Lucie...it is I who must apologise to you for my abrasive conduct,' he said quietly and formally. 'I was merely coming to false conclusions. I hope you are able to forgive me...' Lucie could clearly see the look of bare remorse on his face beneath the white, uncaring frown of the mask. She felt herself soften again towards him, and she gave him a very small, very slight smile of forgiveness that he managed to see himself.

'Er...would you care to come to the apartment? For some tea?' asked Erik, completely at a loss what else to say, finally quoting d'Amecourt and deciding to be courteous.

At first hesitant, but then remembering that the amusing Théodore would also be there, Lucie nodded. Erik's eyes filled with relief, and then, awkwardly and stiffly, he held out an arm. She smiled widely at this gallant gesture and took his elbow, feeling the bone even under so many layers of clothing. The pair of them walked back across the square, Erik looking a little uncomfortable to be in plain sight with a young woman on his arm. Thankfully, though, the only people to see them were the young boys, who giggled amonst themselves at the sight of their friend Lucie with the frightening man who looked so chastened now. Lucie smiled to herself as she kept her fingers on the soft wool of his sleeve; things were definitely beginning to look up...

* * *

There were statues everywhere.

Erik had been toiling on them for the whole night, unable to sleep for the images that kept flashing within his mind. So now they lay, dozens of them, all around the badly-lit bedroom, the floor covered in small chips of stone that crunched underfoot. He had completely thrown himself into the art of sculpting, and was fast running out of stone. The slabs of clay were now molded and shaped into different, uncannily life-like forms, cluttering the room here and there. Faces peered from corners, twisted limbs reached out, wings and claws and limbs and tails were held poised wherever the eye looked.

While d'Amecourt and Lucie were having a one-sided conversation in the kitchen where tea was being brewed, Erik had excused himself purely to look upon his statues again. They gave him a strange sense of fulfilment, something rather like what he felt when he played at his organ. His emptiness and loss was clearly portrayed in each and every one of his sculptures; the blank, hurt eyes and the wailing mouths of the stone and clay creatures told all of his own pain, his own inner frustration. But these statues made him feel as if he could erase that pain by turning it to stone, bit by bit -

'Oh! _Magnifique..._!'

Erik started and dropped the tools he had been tidying from the floor, wheeling around at the sound of the unfamiliar female voice. Who had dared enter his private room and stare at his work? Who could -

He stared in surprise at Lucie, who was standing before a weeping, broken-winged angel, her blue eyes wide and her fingers lightly touching her lips in shock. She looked at Erik, and he stood up slowly, looking equally surprised.

'Did you just speak?' he asked her softly. A wave of emotion passed over her face, and she took her hand away from her mouth.

'Erik...! I spoke...I'm speaking - I...oh!' she stammered, then suddenly flung herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his lean, unyielding form. He tensed immediately, alarmed by this abrupt embrace. What in the world had gotten into her? Erik tried to free himself, but she was so full of emotion that she did not notice, merely clinging to him tighter as she sobbed: 'Oh, Erik! I can speak again! I can hardly believe it - it's your statues, Erik, your statues are so beautiful, they just made me say it out loud! Oh, I can't believe this! For so_ long _I've been trying, but I couldn't, and now...now...oh, Erik!' The words held back for years were springing from her, and he was shocked to hear what she was saying; _his_ statues had made her speak again? Was this the truth? He knew his music used to have a strong influence on people, but he had never expected something like _this_ to happen...

D'Amecourt burst in, then saw Lucie shaking with sobs, holding onto a very flustered Erik as if she would never let him go. 'What's wrong with her?' asked the young man, confused.

'She has...regained her use of speech,' Erik told him awkwardly, rocking slightly as Lucie wept against him. He looked down at her. 'Lucie, I believe it would be better for you if you went back to your father. I shall accompany you, if you wish.'

'Oh...oh...oh, thank you...!' sobbed Lucie, unable to stop the flood of tears that were so quickly exhausting her. As Erik gently led her past, d'Amecourt pushed his maroon-bordered handkerchief into her hand with a smile, and she wept even harder from his kindness. She could speak! She could finally speak! Everything was different now - even Erik was being unusually courteous towards her...nothing would ever be the same, now that she could talk like a normal person! What a wonderful release...oh, she felt so free now! So blissfully _free_!

* * *

Docteur Bayard blanched at the sight of the tall, masked man supporting a weeping, red-eyed Lucie, and almost lost his spectacles in surprise. He looked at his daughter with shocked worry, then up at Erik, wondering if he had been the cause of her state.

'Whatever has happened, Lucie?' Bayard asked his daughter, fearing the worst, but she gave him a huge, watery smile.

'_Papa_! I can speak, I can _speak_!' she cried, letting go of Erik to throw herself at her stunned father instead, almost knocking him over. The Docteur could hardly believe his ears.

'Oh, Lucie! _Ca ne peut pas être vrai_! It cannot be true!' he said, taking the handkerchief she held in her hand and wiping her wet face with it. 'After all these years -!' Tears of emotion welled up in his own eyes while Erik looked on impassively from the doorway. Noticing him simply hovering there, Docteur Bayard said: 'Come in, do come in, Monsieur Erik!'

But Erik politely declined. 'I'm sorry, but I cannot; I still have work to attend to. Good evening.' With that he left Bayard and his daughter weeping in joy together, while he headed towards the gloomier atmosphere of his own apartment.

* * *

To his annoyance, Erik found d'Amecourt in his bedroom. The young man was crouching before the statue of the fallen angel, the one that had shocked Lucie so much with its beauty. He looked up at Erik as he entered.

'I was under the impression that this was my own bedroom,' Erik said tetchily, but d'Amecourt's dizzy smile would not leave his face. 'What seems to be the problem?' he prompted, seeing the man's look of utter excitement.

'Erik - these statues are _brilliant_!' declared d'Amecourt. 'So much detail, so much _skill_...why didn't you _say_ you could sculpt so beautifully?' He moved amongst the statues while Erik watched him with his arms crossed, hoping he would get out soon.

'You know what, Erik?' said d'Amecourt suddenly, spinning round to face him with bright eyes. 'You can _sell_ these.'

Things were definitely beginning to take a turn for the better. Erik built his statues, day and night, while d'Amecourt looked on, deciding which of them would fetch the highest price. Although Erik was loath to lose the stone figures he had spent so much time and effort making, he could not deny that it was for the best: the more money he earned, the sooner he would be able to leave this apartment. So he toiled on, lost in his work, in the middle of a world of his own. He was unused to earning money in this way, but he knew that in the end it would help him get away, get back into his usual position on top. Mild poverty was most certainly not to his taste, and he would certainly be glad to be free of it.

Slowly, Erik began to rely on d'Amecourt, finally accepting him as a compulsory part of the selling and earning process. It was d'Amecourt who knew which galleries would take in which statues, and his guesses were always startlingly correct.

One night, after the money had slowly but surely begun to pour in, d'Amecourt was sitting at the table, looking through a letter. 'Erik?'

Erik appeared in the doorway of his bedroom, clothes peppered with white stone-dust, and then came over to d'Amecourt.

'They say you must put a first name _and_ a surname for them to accept your work,' the young man told him, twiddling with a strand of his hair distractedly. Erik's expression did not change.

'I'm afraid I do not have a surname,' he said simply. D'Amecourt frowned at him.

'Surely you must - your father's surname? Your mother's?'

'I was not acquainted with my father, and my mother was not so ready to confide in me something as personal as her last name,' Erik told him indifferently, making d'Amecourt's face fill with dreadful pity.

'Oh...that's a shame,' he said sympathetically. 'Well, that doesn't change anything - you're free to use my surname, if you like.'

'_Your _surname?'

D'Amecourt shrugged. 'Of course, you're welcome to it,' he said. 'Just as a professional name, if you want. After all, we do live in the same apartment.' Erik was speechless. This young man was willing to make him pass for one of his family? This had never happened before - usually it was the opposite...

'Well, er...if there is no other solution...' said Erik hesitantly. D'Amecourt smiled.

'Very good, then! I shall write it on the form: Erik d'Amecourt,' he said aloud, scribbling away with his pencil. 'It has a nice ring to it, don't you find?'

Erik gave a humourless smile, and went straight back to his bedroom, mulling over his new name. Of course, it sounded ghastly to share the young bourgeois idiot's name, but it was better than nothing at all...and it was admittedly quite a kind act the young man had done...

Erik shut the door of his bedroom, bad-tempered. He was becoming too soft, he knew it...damn this new life!

* * *

Three weeks later saw Erik and d'Amecourt considerably richer men. The statues had been _immensely _popular, and although they were in such worrying forms that elicited all sorts of negative emotions, they sold at an amazing rate. Soon, both of them had enough money to build their own houses. In a feat of kind-heartedness, Erik had donated a percentage of his earnings to d'Amecourt, in exchange for the help he had given him. He did indeed reward those who were loyal to him...

Now, Erik was planning on leaving the apartment. He had packed his belongings, and was searching for a new place to live. It pleased him to no end that he would finally be free of the apartment's dingy confines, that he would be soon back in his own company, as he preferred. The only thing that remained now was to find a place to live, which was proving to be a little difficult...

Deciding to take a breath of air one evening, Erik left the candlelit apartment to take a short walk around the square. The oil-lamps had never started working again, which frankly was unsurprising, given the state of the building. Strangely, though, it was almost sad that he would be leaving the familiar tiny bedroom he had slept in for so long. This time next month, he would doubtlessly be in a home of his own...

The empty square glistened in the moonlight as Erik made his way across it, his shoes making no sound upon the cobblestones. A carriage rattled by in the street, and he turned to stare at it, watching it travel down the road, the horses' hooves clopping as they trotted. He drew his cloak closer around his thin body as memories rushed back, memories of another carriage like the one that had passed, but with a different crest on the door...walking over to the fountain, he sat down heavily at its edge, checking nobody was in sight before putting a gloved hand under his mask to roughly wipe away the moisture from his eyes. _Oh, Christine_..._Christine_...he thought, looking up at the moon like a wounded animal. Her memory was still as strong as ever within him; the sound of her voice, the softness of her curls, her intoxicating fragrance...Erik raised shaking fingers to his lips. To think she had kissed him..._kissed_ him...

He drew a shuddering breath, closing his eyes against the tears. Oh, how he loved her, how her yearned for her...his love for her had been so strong that now he was broken, empty for evermore. How could something so hideous and otherworldly as he dare to fall for such a beautiful creature? And yet...and yet she had _kissed_ him...something even his own mother had never had the courage to do...

Erik put his head in his hands, pressing his mask closer to his face, feeling it dig into the blighted skin. _O misère! O désespoir!_ Christine had given him his first kiss, and then his last...he should be satisfied, but he was not! His mind went back to that night, that terrible night when everything had gone so disastrously wrong. She had looked so wonderful on the stage, so willing to be with him, that he had not been able to resist saying the sweet words he had once heard the Vicomte saying to her. And then she had unmasked him, exposing him to the world. Oh, what rage had coursed through him, what blind, terrible fury! But later...later...

Erik touched his lips again. She had come to him and graced those unworthy lips with hers, taking away his pain for a brief, blissful moment. Then afterwards, of course, it had returned a thousandfold. He had realised how utterly foolish he had been, to believe she would sincerely choose him. No, she had only chosen him from pity, and to save the terrified Vicomte - this was why he had released her, released them both, while all of the curses and insults he had ever heard directed at him shrieked in his head, each foul description sounding more awfully true than ever. He _was_ a beast, he _was_ a murderer, he _was_ a monster, he _was_ devil-spawn! Christine and the Vicomte had left, and he had hidden himself, before curling up in his wrecked lair to die. Erik sighed deeply, wishing Giry had never found him. Death would have been such a release...

'M'sieur?'

Erik lifted his head, quickly adjusting his hat to cover his face. He was quite surprised to see the little boy he had named Corbin standing before him.

'What is it, child?' asked Erik wearily, not wanting company one bit.

'I was looking for you, m'sieur, and I was right to think you'd come out at night,' Corbin said proudly, though still looking shy of him. 'I've found my father, m'sieur.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes! He is a _charretier_ and makes carts,' Corbin told him. 'I know where he works now.'

'A _charretier_, you say?' Erik said, head slightly to one side. The boy bit his lip and shuffled his feet.

'We come from Bretagne, m'sieur,' divulged Corbin shamefully. 'And the people already here in Paris don't like my father because he's Breton, so he could only find work as a cart-maker.'

Erik sighed. 'It is a terrible thing, to judge people,' he murmured, looking at the ground.

'People say Bretons are too old-fashioned, but I don't understand that,' the boy admitted. 'Anyway, we're moving soon. I just wanted to say good-bye.'

Erik found himself strangely touched by this. 'Good-bye, then, Corbin,' he said gently. 'And fare well wherever you go.'

'Thank you, m'sieur - and you too!' replied Corbin, and then ran off into the night. Erik stared after him, the sadness returning to his yellow eyes. Why did the rest of the world seem so happy? Lucie had found her voice, Corbin had found his father...

Slowly, Erik got to his feet and began to make his way back towards the apartment, wondering what he would possibly do that evening. Sculpt some more? It seemed to be the only possible thing to occupy himself with, and it always paid off in the long term. A fire engine whined in the distance, and his footsteps sounded rhythmically on the ground. He was actually quite fortunate, he decided, to have managed to make so much money in so little time. Now he would be able to buy or build a house of his own. But, of course, it would take a long time for him to be ready to leave - perhaps a few weeks more...

The night air was surprisingly warm around him all of a sudden. Was it due to this odd feeling of contentment? Apparently not...maybe winter was leaving early? Erik walked on, hands in pockets, keeping his head down to conceal his face further, for he was walking towards a brightly-lit area -

Erik stopped, with a frown. Since when had there been so many lights in this part of the town? And what was that deep, rumbling, crackling sound? He looked up, confused, then his eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock.

The building before him was in flames, his apartment burning with it.


	7. Chapter 7: The Tower of Statues

_**A/N:**__** OOOH, those deliciously frustrating cliffhangers!! Can't resist them, sorry...Thanks again to: Hot4Gerry (how did you guess? I must be becoming predictable...;D), GerrysJackie (never a moment's peace, indeed! It's Théo's good-naturedness that makes him so annoying to Erik, I think...heehee), HDKingsbury (those little paragraph dividers took **_**so**_** long to put in, though...I had to replace every single chapter. But oh well, 'tis done. Erik said sorry! He is a new man! Wooheeee! And yes, I'm sorry about that very evil cliffie, I can't stand them myself...), MadLizzie (ooh! Yes, it was so evil of me. But here is the promised chapter...I added the Bretons bit because in the nice little documentary I saw that I mentioned before, it said that Parisians looked down on Bretons because they thought they were too "rustic". And I love Brittany so much...I went there on a school trip a few years ago, actually - driving right across the whole of France in a bus (the driver was so old we thought he'd die on the way), sleeping in service stations, having cereal-fights in the bus - and we learned ropecraft, did some catamaran-sailing (I had a nasty encounter with some dogfish and was bad at moving the sails), ocean kayaking (so fun!) and were served cow's tongue on our first day at the boarding place. Although we only ate bread and "Petit Celte" salted butter for the entire week, and complained about the fish-market we visited at five in the morning, it was a great trip. Brittany's wonderful...Oh, yes, and the blue-eyed angel thing - the "wide blue eyes" bit was about Lucie, not the angel. I meant that she was standing by the angel and **_**she**_** had wide blue eyes, not the angel.), GhostOfMusic (Indeedy...argh, I had hoped to finish this chapter quickly to put it up, but what with school, hip-hop, piano, homework and brother-sitting it has taken a bit longer than I'd wanted...), Lady Wen (Robert? Do you mean Théodore? From the Kay-based fanfics I've read, the relationship between Erik and Nadir is very interesting and funny. **__**However**__**, my so-long-awaited copy of Kay's "Phantom" is STILL on its way from - it was ordered before Christmas, too, and the wait is just getting ridiculous...grumble...About the E/C or E/OW thing...I'm afraid it's a bit complicated. Christine and Erik will not meet again, but Erik is still more or less pining over her...hmm...I suppose this makes it an E-thinks-about-C-but-there-is-an-OW-who-likes-him-and-you'll-just-have-to-see-what-happens-next type of story. These characters are so complicated, especially Erik, that it's giving me a headache just sorting out their relationships! Stupid complex emotions...And Lucie **_**can**_** write, definitely, but wouldn't it be a little awkward for her to carry pen and paper around all the time, and spend ages writing out what she wants to say when she can do it with just an expression?), and Pertie (Do not fear for Théo, he's a hardy lad! ;D)**_

_**Aaaaanyway, moving on from the long rambling, here is Chapter 7...and please excuse the shortness of it, the next two chapters with hopefully be a bit better!**_

* * *

The pompiers did their very best. Truly, they did. However, had they arrived an hour earlier, the apartment could probably have been saved.

Erik walked over the damp, blackened carpet, his footsteps crunching on the charred and curled fabric. Structure-wise, the apartment had survived quite well, doubtlessly due to the terrible amount of damp lurking in the walls and ceiling. But the flames had raged hotter than ever inside, the contained fire consuming all within the small rooms that d'Amecourt and Erik owned. Now, after the fire had done its damage, the two of them had returned to see if any of their belongings had been spared.

D'Amecourt was white-faced and morose, shaken by his close encounter with the fire. As he had later said, tremulously, to Erik: 'I could feel the rooms getting hot, and I thought I was fevered; but then, of course, I hear the flames roaring and saw them at the end of the corridor, so I ran out of the building as fast as possible...it was terrible!' The young man was very upset, indeed, to find all of his possessions burnt to a cinder, his clothes mere heaps of ashes, the little painted figures he had set out on the dresser bled of their colouring. He went around the main room, searching for items that had survived but finding none, while Erik went into his own bedroom to see the state of things there.

D'Amecourt's sad green eyes took in the destruction around him. He was hardly able to believe that this time yesterday, his surroundings had been intact and full of colour - and now they were scorched and black and dismal. He had worked so hard to remain on top of the rent, and to manage to find some money for his own food and clothes...to see everything he had acheived lying sooty and burnt around him was a terrible blow. Sighing deeply, he walked through the open door of Erik's bedroom, wondering if any of the man's own belongings were safe. However, he immediately saw there was not much hope; most of the old wooden furniture had been completely burnt through , and the bedroom's only window had shattered from the heat, letting the grey morning breeze stir the ash that covered everything. Yet the couple of leftover statues were, amazingly, still intact - the cowering young woman and the fallen angel were both unharmed under their coating of black dust. What was more, all of Erik's strange clay figures were hardened and glazed rather than utterly destroyed.

D'Amecourt picked one up, lips in a tight, humourless smile.

'Well, at least the fire baked your clay people nice and proper,' he said to Erik grimly. 'And there we were, worrying about not getting them fired...' He gave a short laugh, and put the clay figure down. There was no reply. 'Erik?'

The tall man was standing with his back to him, near the wall by the broken window, his white shirt a sharp contrast against the blackened room. His head was bowed. 'Erik?' d'Amecourt said again.

Erik turned around slowly, holding something cupped in his long, pale hands. D'Amecourt frowned at it, thinking it at first to be a pile of soot; then he realised it was a small, charred body, twisted and burnt by the fire. Carbonised feathers stuck stiffly into the air, slivers of grey bone showing through the black sticky substance that coated it.

'Dead...' whispered Erik, as if he could barely believe it.

'Oh, no...' murmured d'Amecourt. 'I'm so sorry, Erik - I should have remembered...I should have taken the cage out with me - oh, I'm so, so sorry...'

Erik said nothing, his yellow eyes fixed miserably on his late companion. D'Amecourt watched him. Was it misery? Or was it indifference, now? He couldn't tell, with that blasted mask in the way...on the table behind Erik stood what remained of the fine old birdcage. Its metal bars had melted, and its pleasing, symmetrical form had been completely lost.

'He was stuck in the bars,' Erik informed him quietly, noticing his gaze on the cage. 'He must have tried to fly from it as it melted...' D'Amecourt was suddenly struck by an image of the little brown bird fluttering hopelessly against the walls of the cage as the room blazed brightly. He felt so awfully guilty now, seeing the blackened ball of feathers and bones cupped in Erik's hands. If only he had thought to take the cage out...but of course, it was far too late.

D'Amecourt sighed.

'I suppose everything is going to change from now on,' he said sadly, wondering what the future held...

* * *

Two days later, Erik was sitting in the familiar guest bedroom that belonged to Docteur Bayard. He would have been happier to have stayed in an inn, braving the glances of strangers, but once the cursèd man had read about the fire in the morning newspaper, he had insisted that Erik stay in his own house once again. So now Erik was stuck here, back where he had started.

Only this time, he pledged, when he left he would leave for good. He had enough funds to build his own house, and once he had a place to live he would not return. He would put everything behind him and start afresh...and on his own. There would be no infernal home-sharing, certainly not - though it would definitely be strange to walk around a house without young d'Amecourt's endless, good-natured babbling...

After the fire, d'Amecourt, too, had wanted a house of his own built. However, he did not wish to stay in an inn while it was under constuction, for he felt it would use up far too much of his funds for him to be comfortable with. So, for the moment, he had grudgingly returned to the family he had run away from, hopefully to find them willing to take him in again.

Erik leant his sharp elbows on the small desk that had been placed in his room before his arrival, the wood glowing a warm colour under the candlelight. He stared into the flame. Two fires, now, that he had sucessfully evaded. Of course, he had certainly not evaded them unscathed...he sighed, and picked up his pencil once more. Before him lay a large sheet of paper, already covered with neat, perfectly straight lines, carefully measured angles, and crawling with notes scrawled in Erik's angular handwriting. He had set his sights upon a small, charming manor house in the country, but he did not particularly like the design of it. So now, he was sketching out every detail, and putting additions of his own onto it. This house would be far from any other homes, and out of sight of Paris; it was near to a small village, where he could easily purchase any necessities.

A tower appeared from the tip of Erik's pencil, and a long roof. He tilted his head to one side slightly, narrowing his eyes, then experimentally drew a small figure in profile, jutting from the tower like the figurehead of a ship. _Yes_...struck by a sudden idea, he sketched out three more faces, with their bodies pressed back against the higher part of the tower's wall, facing outwards, rather like gargoyles. He did a quick calculation and scribbled down a few numbers beside them. Once he had bought the house, he would commision some builders to use his plans to change its design. He only hoped they would understand his neat diagrams and numbers - he had simplified it so that it would be legibile to them, for sometimes he could get so terribly carried away...

To his right, the door opened slowly.

* * *

Lucie watched Erik work from the doorway. He seemed so absorbed in what he drew that he did not notice her there. Her lips parted gently, uncertain whether to break the peaceful silence with her newly-found speech.

'Erik?' she murmured softly. He started at the unfamiliar voice, his head turning sharply with dangerously flashing eyes. The ferocity in him slowly lessened as he saw it was only her.

'Yes?'

His ebony locks, elegantly combed back, gleamed glossily in the flickering orange candlelight, which made his eyes glitter and the unnatural, fixed planes of his mask become thrown into shadow. Lucie bit her lip uncertainly, then looked down from his unnerving gaze to what he had been so avidly working on.

'What are you drawing?' she asked curiously, unable to distinguish what it was. She came tentatively closer, and turned her head to one side slightly, but still the lines and figures on the paper made no sense to her.

'Plans,' Erik said simply, turning back to his work. 'Plans for my new place of residence.'

'Oh...' Lucie nodded, then a small frown appeared on her face. 'You intend to leave so soon?' Erik looked back up at her, questioningly.

'Why, of course,' he said, and her heart sank. 'I must go as soon as is possible. Besides, I do not wish to pry on your dear father's time, now, do I?' His tone was delicate, almost mocking, but she did not pay attention to it - all that she heard was that he was very anxious to leave, and this made her heart sink even further. He turned his hidden face back to the paper, the frayed knot of black ribbon that tied his mask in place fully visible against his silky hair. Lucie found it strange how he seemed to care so much about his appearance, even though all of his actions seemed to show he detested it...his mask was so carefully placed, his hair combed back so it would not fall in his eyes -

She was suddenly seized by a bizarre, impulsive urge to pull loose the knotted ribbon that clung closely to his head, but she knew perfectly well that he would never, ever forgive her for it, and that the sight of the terrible face she had been told lay beneath the mask was most certainly not worth the trouble. She clasped her hands behind her back, abruptly very aware of his close proximity. Inwardly, she sighed.

'But we will meet again, will we not?' she asked tentatively, her voice very quiet. Erik put his pencil down.

'No,' he said quietly, with dreadful indifference. 'No, I fear we may not.' This hurt Lucie more than she let her face show.

'But, Erik -' She was about to touch his bony shoulder, when he turned around abruptly, making her take her fingers quickly away again.

'Mademoiselle, please,' he said, as if talking to a bothersome, stubborn young child. 'I have a great amount of work to do at the moment.' With that rude dismissal, he turned back to his work once more, picking up his pencil. Lucie was about to leave in shame, when she suddenly realised something. Of course - how could she have not noticed it before? She was such a fool not to see...

She watched him appraisingly while he was busy drawing and pointedly ignoring her.

'What is her name?' she asked him. He stopped working out of sheer bemusement.

'What in the world are you talking about?'

'The woman you are so in love with,' Lucie explained calmly. When he whirled around in shock, she could see the bare alarm in those eerie yellow eyes. His mouth opened, but the words struggled to escape them, his eyes suddenly burning with suspicion and confusion.

'How did you...what makes you think -'

'I know the signs well enough, monsieur,' said Lucie primly, then turned on her heel to leave the room, but gasped as icy fingers closed around her wrist. Fear ran through her at the sight of Erik's clenched teeth and glaring eyes as he stood up, towering tall and menacing over her. He looked so maddened by fury that he seemed fully capable of murdering her there and then.

'What _other_ signs do you know, mademoiselle? Hmm?' he snarled, his fingers still tight around her wrist as she cowered from him in terror. 'Do you know the signs of pain? The signs of loss, of long and lonely years? The signs of isolation, bitterness and complete hatred from others? _Do you know the signs of things best left ALONE_?' He was shouting now, his eyes burning and his teeth bared, shaking poor Lucie slightly in his sheer, unexpected rage. For a long, tense second, he scowled irately at her, holding her terrified gaze with his own livid one.

Just as suddenly as it had commenced, though, his anger faded, and Erik looked away in bitter shame, his proud shoulders drooping. His body began to tremble slightly, head bowing as tears poured down beneath his mask. Lucie's wrist was still in his grasp, and she hesitantly, gently took his hand in both of hers. To her surprise, he did not immediately flinch away, but allowed her to comfort him in this small way.

'Oh, Erik...' she murmured, saddened by the sight of the tears that dripped from his chin onto the floorboards. At a loss what to do, she simply settled for gently stroking his cold hand, feeling the bones and tendons in it as she warmed it in hers. He seemed to remember himself, and pulled away from her with a sigh. Lucie let him take his hand from her, watching him turn away. At first she thought that he was rejecting her once more, but then she saw he was merely turning to wipe the tears from under his mask, sparing her from the sight of his terrible face. Lucie frowned. When would he truly trust her?

'What is happening in here?'

Lucie spun around, and saw her father standing in the doorway, looking very concerned. 'I heard raised voices,' he explained. 'What happened?' He nervously eyed Erik's turned back.

Lucie shook her head dismissively, and took her father's arm. 'Nothing, papa, it doesn't matter,' she told him gently. 'Come, let's go downstairs.' With that she led the confused Docteur from the room, knowing that Erik most probably needed time alone.

* * *

Barely a week later, construction was in full swing over the house in the country that Erik had recently bought. The official plans had been given to the builders, and Erik sincerely hoped that the men would follow the instructions exactly. He had paid for quick, efficient builders, as he could hardly wait for the house to be finished; he longed to end this awful dependence on others that he was so often forced to do. He would live by himself for the rest of his days, he decided, with only his statues for company. He needed no others around him...

Lucie had been particularly vexing of late. He would always catch her gazing at him with the very last emotion he wished to see in her eyes; the girl had no sense, to be following him so! What could she possibly be hoping to gain from this? His heart? Well, she would find nothing if this was so, for he _had_ no heart - what was left of it had been shattered and broken into a thousand useless fragments!

And yet still Lucie tried...

* * *

Erik stood on the canvas that lay on the floor of his bedroom, looking upon the large, rectangular block of stone that was before him. Six others of identical height stood at the other end of the room, waiting to be sculpted. These blocks were fairly large, and had been a nightmare to haul up the stairs, but it was well worth it, as he had work to do.

Erik began to chip away at the block, the rhythmic sound of the mallet on the chisel lulling him as he toiled over it. Soon he became completely lost in his work, feverishly chiselling and brushing and knocking at the stone, taken by the image he held in his mind. Beneath his hands began to form a human figure, more or less life-sized, intricately detailed and frighteningly realistic. He chiselled and he chipped some more, completely unaware of the door opening behind him.

'Oh, Erik...it's so beautiful!'

He turned around sharply, sighing silently as Lucie entered the room, eyes starry and wondrous at the sight of his latest statue. 'I must make six more of these,' he murmured, hoping she would understand and leave him to his work. However, she did not, and came further into the room, gazing at the figure before turning her eyes on him.

'Erik, why do you always avoid me so?' The question was unexpected, and, of course, unwelcome. Erik's expression did not alter, nor did he answer, continuing to chip away at the statue, refining its form.

Lucie's gentle hand on his arm made him start sharply, and he tensed, trying to pull away. 'Lucie -'

'Erik, _please_, I can't stand your hiding!' she said vehemently, seizing both his thin forearms and turning him to look at her properly. He stared down at her, in shock, but she met his eyes with her own steady gaze. Something within her softened and she hesitantly opened her mouth, her face full of guilty honesty. 'Because...because I...I am beginning to feel...rather strongly for -'

'_No! No! No!_' Erik tore himself from her in anguish, hands clamped frantically over his ears. '_Do not finish that sentence_!'

Lucie flushed in shame, but nevertheless kept the hurt from her face. 'Please don't shout, my father will hear -'

'I don't _care_! You have no idea what monstrosity you are faced with - there is no way you can possibly mean what you so passionately say!' Erik raved. 'You have not seen what horror lies beneath this mask - what horror lies within this wretched _soul_...you are naive indeed if you believe you can feel anything for the terrible creature I really am!'

She watched him coldly.

'It is _you_, monsieur, who are naive to think that all that matters is one's face and one's past,' she said calmly, her clear voice making his rage fade. They watched each other for a while, waiting for the other to speak, then Lucie gave in and left the room, inwardly cursing herself for letting her tongue loose. Now what would he think of her? But he _had_ to know...he _had_ to...

* * *

Seven statues stood in a neat row, side-by-side, each with flat backs that enabled them to eventually be mounted upon the top of the tower. They were completely finished, each statue different and beautiful in its own haunting way. Erik had toiled over them for days and days, purely to keep his mind from the encounter with that foolish girl. How could she ever understand his pain? He scowled bad-temperedly, stalking over to the considerably larger bedroom window. It was a cloudy, grey-skied day, the sun invisible through the blanket of cloud. He found he liked days like this; the soft, grey glow made him feel peaceful somehow, and calm. No glaring, burning sun to shine in his sensitive eyes and blister his skin...

Overcast days also consequently meant that fewer people were inclined to be out of doors, which was an extra reason why he liked the heavy cover of clouds. Rain, however...

Rain kept other people indoors, but the smell of it brought him back memories of damp straw, mud, cold water dripping onto the matted curls he had as a boy. They were not all too pleasant memories, especially as they were from the time he had spent with the gypsies, but he valiantly tried to put them aside. His past always followed him like a shadow, unshakeable, constantly plaguing the mind that was already hanging apart at the seams. What misery...

Erik left the window with a sigh, hoping that somehow this pain would cease its endless torment.

* * *

When Erik and the Bayard family recieved word that the house in the countryside was finished, each of them reacted differently. Erik, for one, was simply overjoyed and relieved, Lucie was upset, and Docteur Bayard was glad the man's problems were now resolved and he could start a completely new life.

Their final dinner together was an oddly silent one; Lucie was as quiet as she had been before she had regained her speech, Erik was reserved as usual, and Docteur Bayard simply did not know what to say. So they ate without talking, only occasionally looking up to glance at each other. Erik, however, kept his eyes down, seeming to be fuelled by an odd energy probably caused by his triumphant excitement.

'I shall be leaving tomorrow morning,' announced Erik, breaking the silence unexpectedly. He had packed the new clothes and belongings and tools he had purchased after the fire, and the bags that held them were neatly lined beside his bed. 'It will not be necessary to see me to the door; I shall rise at an early hour, and it would not be proper to rouse you. That is why I must retire early tonight - I say my good-byes in advance to you, then.' His dinner finished, Erik stood, and so did Bayard and his daughter, who had also just finished.

'Good-bye, then, Monsieur Erik,' said Docteur Bayard, reaching out a hand. 'May you fare well in your new home. No matter what you say, we shall certainly be giving you a proper send-off tomorrow, no matter what the hour!' Erik smiled mirthlessly, then firmly shook the Docteur's hand, his slender fingers cold and his grip strong.

'I thank you, monsieur, for all of your support and care,' he said to Bayard formally, then turned to Lucie. 'Mademoiselle...I shall wish you good luck with your new voice.' He nodded politely at her, and she returned the gesture, a flicker of their old way of communication coming back to both of them suddenly. Then, however, the moment was gone, and Erik left the room. The tension that the man brought was consequently lifted, and Lucie gave a sigh.

'Why so glum, ma fille?' asked Bayard gently.

'Oh...I've gotten so used to seeing him that it will definitely be strange without him in the house,' she replied. Everything would definitely seem blander without Erik's strange, dark presence - the presence that was could be so worrying at times but also very, very interesting...

* * *

The sky outside was dark; no birds sang, no glimmer of sunlight had yet pierced the murky horizon. It was the ideal time for Erik to be fully awake.

He shuffled around his bedroom, taking up his coat, which he put on, and also putting on his new hat. Now was the time for him to leave this place forever, and to leave all the memories that it held. He picked up his bags, and left his bedroom, walking noiselessly down the dark, silent corridor.

Despite Bayard's kind promise of giving him a "proper send-off", Erik was relieved to find that nobody was awake and therefore he could be on his way with as little fuss as possible. He wanted to sever himself cleanly from this city and its ghosts, and simply to forget. Making his way down the stairs, he quietly swept through the main room -

'Erik.'

He froze, and turned. Lucie was standing nearby, her white, lace-trimmed nightdress with her pale nightgown over it made her seem ghostly in the darkness. He had completely overlooked her, and he cursed the fact that she had so obviously been waiting for him. As she drew nearer, he noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes.

'You should not have waited,' he murmured. 'Look, you are tired. I have already said my goodbyes; you would do better to go upstairs and sleep.'

She sighed. 'That was not a true goodbye,' she said dismissively. 'I wanted to say a proper one. And whether you like it or not, I _shall_ meet you again. I know where it is that you live.'

Erik narrowed his eyes. 'I shall make sure that I put spikes upon my garden wall, then, and bars against my gate,' he said grumpily, but Lucie smiled in an unintentional way.

'Well...goodbye, Erik...' she murmured sadly. Sadly? Erik was bemused. Sad to see him leave? What a curious young woman she was indeed...

'Goodbye, Lucie,' he replied, and was about to turn to go when suddenly she was very near to him, rising up on tip-toe to _press a small kiss upon the side of his mask_. Erik's breath caught in utter horror, reeling back in shock. He raised a shaking hand to the mask's frowning cheek where she had kissed it.

'Why did you do that?' he whispered, rage, horror and embarrassment battling for dominance over him. Lucie looked up at him, her face full of pure sorrow and..._love_?

'You know very well,' she answered quietly. Erik stared at her for a few seconds, then picked up the bags he had dropped.

'I...I must leave now,' he said briskly, but more embarrassed and shocked than cold and angry. As he opened the door and disappeared into the night, Lucie watched after him.

'Goodbye, Erik...'

* * *

The new house was a very uncommon one indeed in its design, probably due to the...particularity of its designer.

Erik emerged from the leafy darkness of the surrounding forest, two tall gate-posts of grey brick twined with ivy looming up ahead. An exquisite wrought-iron gate with curling decoration opened silently when he pushed on the ornate latch and wonderingly walked through.

As soon as he had entered, he stopped and looked about himself with triumph. Around him was a huge, sprawling garden, darkened and decorated by many tall, elegant trees that thrust their branches to the sky. Hedgegrows and bushes were clipped into many twisting, curling shapes, still with their leaves even though it was winter. Over the high stone wall that bordered the garden, the forest's own trees were visible, wild and thickly clustered, isolating the beautiful garden from the rest of the world, shielding it from view. Erik looked down. Straight ahead of him curved a long path paved with pale stone, leading up to the stone steps of a most magnificent house indeed.

In reality, it was a quaint but very beautiful-looking building, with sharply slanting roofs crowned by more spiked iron. Tall, narrow arched windows contrasted with round, ornate ones while stone, iron and wood curled together magnificently with brick in between. Small cellar windows peered from the very base of the building while thin attic windows gazed into the treetops. The house had little symmetry, appearing to be several curving or straight blocks stuck together, but to magnificent effect. A verandah wrapped around the house, fringed by carved banisters and columns. Everywhere one looked, there was a different texture; panneled wood here - brick there - slate tiles over there...

The house was a true masterpiece, but even more impressive was the tower that rose beside it, attached to the building's right wing. It was made of stone and brick in the style of the house, with lovely arched windows and a beautiful roof that thrust an iron spike to the heavens. However, it was not only the tower's majesty that was amazing, but the statues that clung with their backs to the walls, like figureheads of a ship made of stone. Erik smiled at the sight of his plan come to life. There were seven statues in total around the tower; figures of men and women carved from white stone, leaning forwards slightly while their lower backs were pressed to the tower's walls, their legs disappearing into the walls completely to become a part of it. Their graceful hands - with fingers so detailed and realistic anyone could believe they were real - were either reaching forwards or splayed against the wall behind them as they gazed out from the tower. Some stared up at the sky, others tilted their faces to the ground, and Erik felt a sense of great victory. This was his new home, and it was hidden from the world by trees and winding forest paths.

The builders had done a remarkable job indeed...working quickly and getting a tremendous amount of work done in so little time. Why, they had only been given the statues a few days ago, and yet here they were, fully fixed onto the tower! A true feat of architecture...

* * *

Many weeks later, Erik was more at home than ever. He had begun to create his statues once more, in the small workshop room inside the house. The demand on his creations was just as great as ever, and so he continued to sculpt, losing himself so completely in his work that sleepless nights became frequent, and he often went for days without a proper meal.

Over a thousand statues were made through this endless toil, each more beautiful than the last. And it was through this toil, that the name Erik d'Amecourt became widely known.

Although Erik did not know of it at first, many fine art galleries that had so avidly been purchasing his creations had made him something of a celebrity. People often talked of the latest d'Amecourt statue, of the sculptures they wished to purchase themselves. When Erik heard of his own unexpected artistic popularity in a letter adressed to him, he was unsure what to think of it. Should he be glad, to be so well known and, in a way, accepted? Or should he resent the fact that his existence was no longer a secret?

Nevertheless, though, he knew very well that fame, however small, breeds jealousy and hatred. This very hatred was lodged deep in the hearts of several other rival artists, who disapproved greatly of the haunting, odd statues Erik made - mostly because they bettered their own.

And though he was not to know it, many of these rival artists were hatching plans to "incapacitate" him...

One not-so-fine morning, Erik sat in his small kitchen. He had not wanted a large kitchen, for he did not bother much with such luxuries as food. He had no set mealtimes; the only times he ate was when he was hungry and had some spare time, the factors which rarely coincided.

This morning, he had recieved something troubling: a letter from Lucie. He felt such terrible shame when he thought of her; the girl's uncalled-for, foolish advances always bemused and embarrassed him to great extent. Now he had recieved a _letter_ from her, asking him to meet her the very next day. Erik's yellow eyes moved over the paper, wondering if what she asked was true. He did not know whether he wished to go and meet her in the local village or not...as much as he despised indecision, he could not help hesitating over the prospect of seeing Lucie once again. If he accepted, who knew what would occur...yet if he declined...

Erik sighed, putting his head in his hands. Today would definitely be a long day.


	8. Chapter 8: The Man Behind the Monster

_**A/N:**__** And whoops, up goes the rating...(teehee) Caution: fluff ahead! ;D And a bit of...**_**ahem**_**...sensuality (about time, too, I hear you yell)...One chappie left! Oh, well...hopefully I will be able to write more (and maybe even a little epilogue) quite soon. But the going may be a little slow again: I've just joined this year's school production, some strange musical called "Wacky Soap" that is a bit...odd...so there go my free Wednesday afternoons. Never mind, I have just successfully baked a cake, so I am very happy. And the happier I am, the more I write! A big thank-you to: Lady Wen (Yes, Théodore shall appear again – we can't have such a sweet chap fading into the background, can we:D), Curlycurlz (Weren't Christine and Raoul happy together in the books, too? Hmm…haha, yes, I do lurve a bit of trauma), and MadLizzy (ooh, I like that word, 'foreshadowing'…sounds ominous…I might use it in future. :D Ah, yes, the jealous bad-loser artists…heehee, add the toothbrush moustaches and deadly sculpting tools and you have a real threat to Erik! Oh, I love Edward Scissorhands! I watched it when I was nine and it made me cry afterwards when the inventor guy died. The house was inspired from a photo of a Victorian house that I saw, and it was a bit of a challenge to describe…yes, I feel so bad about the bird. Oh, well, it was for metaphorical purposes, so…Haha, the kissing bit made me laugh. It was fun imagining Erik's reaction, too :D)**_

_**Here we go, then:**_

Louis Fournier walked through the town's narrow streets, full of vengeance and triumph. He had recently been talking to one of the locals of the town, and they had been so marvellously willing to tell him of the well-reknowned statue-maker who lived so nearby. The local person had also revealed that the man also came down to the town once aeveryfortnight to purchase various necessities...and that for some strange reason, those who glimpsed him remarked that he wore a mask. This had greatly piqued Fournier's interest. Why did his new enemy and rival cover his face? Obviously it was for reasons of witholding his identity...so who could this great statue-maker really be?

Four more men joined Fournier. All of them were fellow artists and sculptors recently fallen from fame...and all of them were very resentful towards this Erik d'Amecourt person indeed. They also were anxious to discover who the man really was, behind the strange white mask.

So they had gathered here to lie in wait for him, for a local had said that he usually came on Tuesdays to buy his goods, and now was their perfect chance.

* * *

Erik pulled his collar higher, feeling terribly self-conscious out in broad daylight. But, of course, there was nothing to be done about it - he needed more stone, more clay, more tools...

And there was the business with Lucie, too...he had finally decided that perhaps now was not a good time to meet her. He had sent her a reply, politely declining her offer of a meeting. But now, he was unsure whether this had been the right action to take; he had been given time to think, more time than he had ever had before. The world could be so complicated...Erik walked on, so wrapped up in his thoughts that the small group of rather rich-looking men who were beginning to follow him entirely escaped his notice. It was only when he turned into a small, gloomy side-street that he began to feel something irritating him. Erik narrowed his eyes and walked faster. The town's streets were mostly empty on working days, because a great part of the inhabitants went to work elsewhere, since the town was too small to provide enough work for all of its people.

His cloak billowed out behind him as he picked up his pace slightly, then realised what a nervous fool he must appear. As the town square was just ahead, it was most likely to be a simple peasant woman making her way through the -

Something collided into him from behind, sending him flying into the opposite wall. As he was quite a tall man, he was not knocked over, and the quick reflexes he had acquired at a very young age came into play. Nevertheless, his head hit the brick wall with a sharp _crack_, making him stagger slightly before wheeling around to face his opponents.

There were five of them, some with neatly trimmed beards, all dressed in impeccable, rich clothing. Erik gave a snarl, backing against the wall. Cornered! What could these malevolent men possibly want from him?

Suddenly they attacked, all at once. Fists and feet came flying to meet him, catching him in the stomach, shins and jaw. The blood began to pound in Erik's head as more memories flooded back; he was well-experienced at this, very well-experienced indeed. They wanted to play his game? Then so be it! Erik ducked and wove sinuously, moving as fast as a shadow fleeing from light. One man gave a roar and leapt at him, but he brought his elbow up sharply, breaking the man's nose with a lusty crunch. Rage boiled in his veins, all of his thoughts obliterated by the primal urge to cause as much pain as possible. Erik lashed out, slamming a man into the wall, but then there was a yelled order and four pairs of arms closed on him, fingers scrabbling at the black ribbon around the back of his head.

The mask fell away, and Erik whirled around in fury to face them, his eyes full of yellow fire.

'Good God!'

'Urgh - _c'est immonde_!'

'Out of this world!'

'Oh, Heavens!'

Each wore different expressions of horror, disgust and outrage at the sight of the noseless, papery-skinned face that glared down at them. Erik felt the black, smouldering rage within him flare up once more, shrouding everything he saw in a thin red mist of anger. These men had seen what he really was, and now were going to kill him for it, he could see it in their eyes! As they began to attack him once more, he fought back just as valiantly, driven by an animal force lodged deep inside him. It was this damned survival instinct that had prolonged his miserable life so unbearably, and now it was coming into effect.

With an inarticulate cry, Erik lunged at one of his aggressors, roughly taking the man's head and sharply breaking his neck. The man slumped to the floor, dead, an expression of surprise frozen on his features. The man's comrades were appalled by this, motivated even more to harm this terrible, mad, murdering creature. A fist slammed into Erik's face, bursting the delicate veins so close to the surface of his skin. He didn't even stagger this time, throwing himself instead at a short man with whispy hair. The whispy-haired man was bowled over, the back of his head hitting the floor, unable to get up because of Erik's full weight pinning him down. Completely crazed now, Erik wrapped his long fingers around the man's neck, and when he realised this would not be quick enough, he began to viciously beat the man's skull against the ground. The man desperately reached up to push him away, his nails raking into Erik's skin, making drops of scarlet blood well up in the scratches. Blood splashed down onto the man's own face as his fellows tried to throw Erik off, but when at last they pushed him away, the man's skull was well cracked and he was dead. Who would have thought this would lose them two of their friends? They had only wanted to remove the wretch's mask - they had never known there was a mad demon lurking behind it...

Erik pulled himself up the opposite wall, rivulets of red rolling down his cheeks and onto the floor. His face always bled to much, because of the very thin layer of skin; he remembered the copious amount of blood he had shed with the gypsies...always so hard to stop...

A fist connected with his stomach, and another with his ribs. He was tired, and still outnumbered, even though he had killed two of them...and he was losing blood...

Another fist hit him as he slumped down the wall, and everything became black.

* * *

Lucie gave an irritated sigh. What was she playing at? He had already so courteously told her that he did not wish to see her. Why was she here?

Oh, she knew very well. Despite the fact that Erik was still so distant and reserved with her, she did feel immensely for him. Yes, she loved him, and wanted him to _know_ that not all of the world was against him, if he could only believe it...but one thing was for certain: he was not going to appear today. After travelling all this way to this tiny little town in the countryside, and after waiting for so long in the town square for a glimpse of him...perhaps he was still at his home? She would have to check...

As she walked on her way, three very dishevelled-looking men hurried past, their clothes torn and their skin bruised. One was sporting a broken nose. She frowned at them curiously. What were three rich Parisian men doing in this small town, looking as if they had just been in a hefty brawl? She had no idea.

'We _must_ inform the police...to think...Raymond and Arthur...all that talent, gone to waste!' one was snivelling.

'No, no, we cannot!' another expressed vehemently. 'They will discover what happened to that pretentious d'Amecourt -'

_D'Amecourt_? Lucie was confused at why they were talking of Théodore, but then she realised that they meant _Erik_...what had happened to him? Her heart began to race as she listened.

'How can we just leave three bodies in an alley, though - they will be found anyway!' the third said. 'It is right next to the town square, somebody is bound to -'

'_Tais-toi_! Shut up! It pains me to leave them, but we must!' Lucie stopped, leaving the three to hurry on.

She felt light-headed. Three bodies...? And one was _Erik's_?

She began to run back where she came. Next to the town square, they had said - oh, how could she not have noticed the fight taking place so near to her? Breathlessly, she reached the narrow, dark gap between two buildings. Picking up her skirts, she ran down it, her corset feeling more constricting than usual as she saw three dark, prone shapes.

'Erik!'

Lucie ran forwards, bending over one of the figures. It was a man in a brown waistcoat, with his head at an odd, gruesome angle. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth in horror, skirting around the body. Nearby was another prone shape. This time, it was a whispy-haired man, with wide-open eyes and blood spotted all over his face. Lucie gave a stifled shriek as she looked down and saw she had stepped into the pool of sticky blood that had spread around the man's head like a dark halo. These people had been the friends of the three surviving men...she realised with a sickening jolt that the only person capable of killing them was Erik. She knew he was a tormented person, who sometimes teetered on the brink of insanity, but she had never thought he would _murder_ so freely...yet it had been in defence, she knew...not his fault, perhaps...Feeling quite queasy, she looked towards the final figure that lay slumped against the wall.

'Erik?' whispered Lucie, feeling tears spring to her eyes. Erik's mask was gone, lying further down the alleyway, and his uncovered face was smeared with blood, horribly bruised in places. His hair was matted with the blood drawn, and his eyes were closed. Slowly, silently, Lucie knelt beside him. _No...no, this couldn't be_...

He had lost quite a lot of blood from the scratches on his face. His attackers had obviously been merciless towards him. How could people be so cruel...he had just begun to live, and now...now...

Lucie reached out a shaking hand to touch the side of his stricken face. It was truly a ghastly sight, but she had barely noticed it for all the blood and the pain she felt for him. His skin was dry, horribly thin, and sticky with dark blood. She touched it gently, feeling the despair rise in her as she realised he would normally never stand for this. If he had been in his normal state, he would have thrown her off before now, but here she was, resting her fingertips on one torn cheek, getting no reaction whatsoever. Her vision blurred with tears as she gazed down at him, so unresponsive and silent. Her hand stroked his face tenderly, travelling over the missing nose -

Her movements stilled, and she paused. Yes, there it was again. A slight, brief suggestion of warm on her skin, that disappeared and then came back again...

_He still breathed_.

'Erik...Erik! Oh, thank God you're alive!' she whispered, resting her hand against his face more boldly now. 'Thank God...I'll take you home, I'll help you...' After grabbing his mask and pushing it into her deep front pocket, she took his own spidery hand, and pulled him into a sitting position, positioning herself under his arm before heaving him upright in a motion her father had once made a long time ago. Bearing his weight fully on her shoulders, Lucie began to drag her feet forwards. Erik's body was limp and so unbearably heavy...he was far taller than she was, and could not support himself...

Leaving the two bodies behind shudderingly, Lucie progressed through the quieter-looking streets with Erik slumped over her, his fine shoes scuffing on the ground. Her corset squeezed the air from her lungs, and she was panting, each breath stinging her dry throat. Progress was terribly slow as she dragged him through the small, empty streets, praying not to be seen. She had not thought to put the mask on Erik's face, preferring not to waste time, but this meant that all hope would be lost if his face was glimpsed. Gossip spread in small towns like this, and it was the last thing Lucie wanted.

Her shoulders were on fire, and her back ached painfully. She had left the outskirts of the town now, and was making her way along the forest paths. Up ahead, the iron spike at the top of Erik's tower was visible, but it did not seem to be getting any closer. A sob of exhaustion and desperation forced its way past Lucie's lips, her heart pounding in her ears. He was so heavy, his legs were so long, and they dragged on the ground, slowing her down...bright points of light danced around Lucie's eyes as her chest heaved, and the world began to spin. Abruptly she dropped Erik in a rather rude manner, closing her eyes and sinking to her knees, taking deep breaths. This damned corset! She loosened it with difficulty, and soon she could breath more freely, her surroundings becoming considerably less inclined to move. Her eyes fell on Erik, whose eyes were stirring beneath his eyelids. She was loath to be pinned under his weight again, but there was nobody else in the world willing to take him back to his house, and it was up to her to do so. She cared for him too much to leave him here.

Hauling his arm around her shoulders again, she continued her awkward way through the trees. When had a road ever seemed so long? She reached a fork in the path, caught her breath, then dragged herself left.

'..._droite_..._à droite_...' murmured a weak, groggy voice beside her. Lucie stopped, realising Erik had spoken. Right, he had said...he had stopped her from taking the wrong path. So perhaps he did want to be helped, even though he was only semi-conscious.

She dutifully took the path to the right, and after an infernally long time, she arrived at the wrought-iron gates of the most amazing house she had ever seen.

* * *

Erik's eyes were closed, but his chest was rising and falling normally. He had lost some blood, and been knocked unconscious, but his state was not too serious. He would definitely recover. Lucie sat at his bedside, in the bedchamber that looked as if it was used very little. The man must have been staying up all night, as he was apt to. Lack of sleep was terrible for a person, she knew...perhaps he would not mind if she stayed a little...

Beside her was a small basin of water, rose-tinted now from the blood she had wiped off his face with the sponge that floated in the basin. It had taken her a while to find all of these items, but she had been determined indeed. His face was now clean, and though this fully exposed his deformity, she found she did not care. Now she saw; now she knew the reason for his strange temperaments, for his rejection of others, for his constant torment. Only if the world was blind would he be able to truly fit in.

She had lit a candle by his bed, and its light shone oddly into the crevice of his missing nose. His face looked more skull-like than ever with the dark hole in the centre of it, but she knew that a man lay behind it. No, not a man - a _genius_.

Lucie leaned closer to him tentatively. The more she looked at him, the less his features unnerved her. What a life he must have lived...she watched the rise and fall of his chest. Although he had the face of a corpse, he had the hands of a man, the body of a man...so did that not make him a true man? Was the world so prejudiced against him? She gazed at him sadly, looked at the stern, unsmiling mouth that held such a glorious voice. If he had been given a chance whenever he had not, would those lips be more inclined to smile? Would the faint lines around the corners of his mouth even have formed?

'Oh, Erik,' whispered Lucie despairingly to the sleeping man. 'Will you never see that I love you?' She touched the wild, coal-black locks on his head, and cautiously moved closer to him. She closed her eyes, heart thumping in her ears with the impulsiveness of her actions, and then gently carressed his dry, afflicted cheek with her lips. His skin was vaguely warm, and she felt very light-headed indeed to be so boldly kissing the face that everybody hated and feared so much, including Erik himself. Her lips stroked his high cheekbone, feeling how strangely thin and silky the skin felt closer to his eye...

'No...!' murmured Erik in alarm, waking horrified to find Lucie kissing him. She knew she must be the very first to press her lips to his fearsome visage, and this was what shook Erik the most. Lucie drew away slightly, blushing ashamedly as he fixed her with calculating, golden-yellow eyes. His eyes had always fascinated her...his affliction must have somehow bled them of their colour and turned them this strange yellow hue...Now they were filled with pain and bitterness. 'You mock me,' he hissed wretchedly, sounding betrayed.

'No, Erik, I would never mock you...you know that,' she reassured him softly and seriously. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

'Yet why do you torment me so, dear Lucie?' he asked, still with his eyes closed. She looked at him in worry.

'I did not mean to...I just want you to know that I care for you a lot,' she confessed. Erik did not move for a long while, nor make any reaction. She almost thought he was asleep, until he spoke again.

'I have killed at least five people, Lucie...surely nobody can care for a murderer...?' he murmured with calm indifference. Lucie frowned. 'Five?' she repeated. 'But...there were only two bodies in the -'

'Everybody has a past,' he said softly. 'And so do I...a rather gruesome one, at that.' She stared at him in horror for a second as he lay there with his eyes shut, calmly telling her about the murders he had committed. However, she refused to let him push her away.

'Erik,' she said gently, '...it doesn't matter to me what you may have done in the past, even if they were shocking things. I have told you already, I _care_ for you.'

A small, odd half-smile curved his lips slightly. 'Quite the tenacious one, aren't you...'

Lucie could not think of what more to say to this sorry creature. She watched him steadily. 'I love you, Erik. I love you.'

The silence that ensued was a long one. She began to doubt he had heard her, but then his cracked lips parted, trembling slightly.

'Why?' he asked quietly, voice shaking a little.

'What do you mean?' Lucie said, confused. His eyes still did not open.

'Why do you love me?'

She was quite taken aback by this question. Did he really not know? Did he really want a reason? Could he not find one himself? She watched him, her face full of sadness.

'Because...because...you're Erik!' This question was too difficult for her to answer satisfactorially.

'But Erik is a repulsive, murdering beast of a man,' he whispered. 'Surely he deserves no love?'

Lucie sighed. 'That is precisely why I love Erik,' she replied. 'Because he is so used to being hated that he thinks he does not deserve anything else.'

'So it is out of generosity, then? Or pity?'

'Not only that! I love you because you are still alive, despite everything that has happened to you, despite the fact that you have been hated and shunned for so long!' Lucie declared.

There was another lengthy pause, and then Erik whispered in the voice of a lost child:

'Is this the truth?'

Lucie gazed at his pained, strangely vulnerable face. It was odd how fragile he suddenly seemed without his mask, without his spiked defences...

'Yes, Erik. Can you not see it?'

He did not reply, but Lucie noticed the rim of his eyelids glistening with tears, the candlelight making the salty liquid shine. _Oh, Erik_, she thought.

* * *

Fournier and his two remaining friends, Bourque and Gaudet, contemplated the events that had previously occurred.

'This cannot go on,' Bourque said. 'The creature was only unconscious when we left him...he needs to be properly incapacitated.'

'Killed, you mean,' Gaudet corrected, eyes flashing at the memory of his friends massacred at the hands of that monster.

'Yes, killed,' agreed Bourque, and Fournier nodded too. 'Arthur and Raymond's deaths must not go unavenged.' The three of them acknowledged how badly awry their plan had gone. All they had wanted to do was see what manner of person hid behind the mask, to learn Erik d'Amecourt's true identity and maybe give him a few bruises to put him in his place...but now, they had found the reknowned artist was a disfigured monster, and two of their close colleagues had been actually _killed_, before their very eyes! 'For this, we must inform the _gendarmes_.' Gaudet and Fournier were about to protest, but Bourque carried on: 'We only have to tell them that he saw us as rivals, attacked us and killed Arthur and Raymond, and we were forced to subdue him.'

'Yes,' Fournier agreed. 'Once the police realise he is a madman, they will not believe a word he says in his own defence!'

'Very well,' said Gaudet grimly. 'We inform them first thing tomorrow.'

* * *

Lucie watched Erik as he stood by the window, looking outside with his hands clasped behind his back. She had only just re-entered, after leaving him alone to change into a more comfortable nightshirt.

'You should rest,' she told him quietly. 'You have a lot of bruises and cuts, and you lost a fair amount of blood.' She was ignored, as expected, but still walked forwards to where he stood. Erik did not move his head, but his eyes flickered onto her beside him. 'Does this face really cause you so little distress?' he asked, as if trying desperately to find an aspect of him that could genuinely repulse her.

She gave a weary sigh. 'I know it is not your fault that you have such a face,' she explained. _It's true_, said her eyes. _I really do love you...believe me._ He turned his face away.

_Cease your games_, his stance told her, and he crossed his arms.

Lucie gently put a hand on one arm, and to her surprise, he did not fight, and seemed to even _relax_ slightly. He let her take his hand, and watched her caress the bony knuckles and scarred palm of it. The hand, roughened by ivory keys and burnt by rope, that had killed so many but failed to weaken her touch...

'Perhaps you do not lie, then...' he said softly, wonderingly. Slowly, he turned towards her, and she came closer. Lucie looked him full in the face unflinchingly, completely immunised by the long minutes of sitting simply watching him. Now he was shivering a little, and for the first time, she could see his true expression. But it was so complex she could not even begin to understand what it was...His lips parted, moving slightly as if forming words, and his tortured, bottomless eyes fixed themselves on her, still looking for fear, but finding only honesty and compassion.

'If my heart was not shattered and ground to dust, I would give it to you, Lucie,' he murmured, and then his head bowed.

Clumsily at first, his lips touched hers, sure now that the danger was not there. Or was he simply weary of hiding and restraining himself? Lucie's heart jolted so violently in her chest that she thought she would faint, but then she recovered and wrapped her arms gently around him, being careful not to overwhelm him. Erik's eyes were shut tight, as if he were in a dream he did not want to wake from, hardly able to believe what he would see if he opened them. Her hands stroked his face again, then ran through the warm black locks. It was unnerving to feel no nose against her as she kissed his lips, but she soon became used to it. To think she was kissing the man who, not so long ago, would not even let her touch him! Things had changed, dramatically..._both_ of them had changed...

Lucie found herself being steered backwards towards the bed. She was unsure whether this was acceptable to happen so soon after the first contact, but Erik had been denied this for so long that it was catching up with him...and she herself had never experienced this at all. What harm would it do? It would repay what was already so much in debt...

As Lucie let him impatiently and somewhat amateurishly work his way through her many layers of clothing, she found her thoughts becoming obliterated by the wave of sensations this man elicited in her. The last thing she remembered thinking before the candle was extinguished and Erik descended on top of her, was: _What will it be like_?

* * *

Darkness. Pure darkness.

Lucie lay on her back, very aware of the exhausted, sleeping form of Erik beside her. She had tasted the night in its purest form; all the bitter blackness and all the shadows contained within his heart that surged up to claim them both. It had been very draining indeed, but she had never felt anything like it. Her mind had been reeling, all of the world disappearing into the darkness that came from this man...She remembered looking up and seeing the face of death above her, so close to her own, pale in the moonlight that came from the window. It was a very strange experience...she had heard the strained wheezing of a dying man, felt a corpse's lips against her forehead - but she had not been scared. No, she had even been _willing_ to embrace this child of the shadows, to kiss his jaw and protuding shoulderblade...she did not care of his appearance.

Lucie turned her head to look at the man who lay beside her. He was still so thin...she fleetingly remembered jutting ribs, the humps and grooves of a prominent, arching spine under her fingers...he was even neglected by himself. She slowly moved nearer to him, careful not to wake him, as the expression of pure, simple peace on his face was too precious to disturb. For once, his body felt almost warm...she embraced him tenderly, resting her forehead against his chest, and then closed her eyes and fell into a blissful sleep...

* * *


	9. Chapter 9: Drowned in the Light

_**A/N:**__** Well, here we are: the final chapter! Perhaps I shall do an epilogue, too... Heehee, you may have noticed that in the previous chapter I had Erik refer to himself in the third person at one point, Leroux-style - couldn't resist it ;D. A gigantic merci to: Hot4Gerry (haha, yes, I thought he might be "wham bam done" too, given how deprived he is. But I'm sure Lucie enjoyed it! ;D), LoraineSouza (don't we all, don't we all!), Pertie (they're such bad losers, aren't they...poor Erik.), MadLizzy (Erik was unconscious, which was why he could not walk. He came to for a while, pointed her in the right direction, then sunk under again. As for his injuries, he **_**was**_** beaten up quite a bit, but isn't he used to rough treatment, what with the gypsies and all the rest? He was only unconscious, not half beaten to death. Tough guy, this Erik...how else would he have survived for so long? And besides, rich, well-clothed artists don't hit very hard compared to your average street yob, even though they do it in earnest. :D), GhostOfMusic (They were rival artists, whose limelight got stolen by Erik with his realistic and beautiful statues. I will definitely be writing more stories! I already have some ideas...), HDKingsbury (That's alright, I know a LOT about hecticness...(cringe)...you have a villain called Fournier, too:D I suppose it is a bit of a common name...isn't it the equivalent of Baker or something? Heehee, that made me chuckle too! I suppose I should be sorry that I broke your heart with the heart line, but I'm happy you liked it anyway...I was wracking my brains trying to come up with something Erik-y for him to say, that wasn't the reliable old "I luv ya", and it seems I nailed it! Yaaay!), and -189-Christine-189- (Yahoo! Glad you like it! Makes my day...)**_

_**So, without further delay, here is the ninth and final chappie (sit tight, it goes a bit fast)...**_

* * *

The corner of a freshly-pasted poster flapped slightly in the breeze from the brick wall it sat upon. Passers-by read the message written on the poster in black, ominous capitals: 'Avis de Recherche: ERIK D'AMECOURT - MORT OU VIF. Recompense 4,000 francs.'

As descriptions of a tall, dark, white-masked murderer spread through Paris, word also reached the former stagehands and employees of the Opéra Populaire. This description was very well-known to them, and it was only a matter of time before the police heard, to their surprise, that this man was none other than the infamous Opera Ghost. Now that the Opera's Phantom had been given a solid identity, eagerness to capture him doubled, and many were shocked to find that the talented sculptor they had so often praised was in actual fact a wanted man. With the reward money added, a vast majority of the citizens of Paris began to actively search the city.

'LE RETOUR DU FANTOME' proclaimed the newspapers, informing all who did not know already of the true identity of the Opera Ghost, and a lengthy list of all the crimes he had committed. Theft, blackmail, murder...there were so many serious accusations that Erik d'Amecourt was as good as dead, with all of the people hunting him.

One of those newspapers was clutched in Madame Giry's hand, her fingers clutching it so tightly that the large printed drawing of a fierce, masked face was crumpled. Her other hand knocked shakily on the front door of the townhouse she had not visited in a while.

Docteur Bayard himself opened the door quickly, looking somewhat desperate, then quickly ushered her in. 'Have you read the news?' Madame Giry asked him worriedly, her face pinched with anxiety. Bayard looked rather agitated and afraid himself.

'Yes, yes, I most certainly have,' he said. 'But what worries me most is my poor Lucie...!' Madame Giry frowned in concern. 'What has happened to her?' she asked, noticing the girl's absence. Bayard sighed, looking frenzied with anxiousness.

'She is with him!' he exclaimed. 'Erik - she went to meet him and she has not yet returned!' He sat down heavily in a chair and put his head in his hands, near tears. 'I am so worried about her - the man is a murderer, the papers say...'

Madame Giry put a consoling hand on his arm. 'Do not fear, Victor - although it shocks me to learn of Erik's recent actions, I am sure your daughter is alive and well,' she said. 'He only kills if there is a reason for it, and he and Lucie seemed to be on relatively good terms the last time I visited...'

'But, Antoinette, you must understand my concern - Lucie is the only one I have left!' Docteur Bayard said miserably, tears beginning to shine in his eyes. 'If something happened to her -'

'Victor, I know Erik. Not everything about him, but I still nevertheless know him,' Madame Giry replied. 'He would not harm Lucie.'

Bayard looked down at the newspaper on the table, the newspaper that screamed out details of each and every murder and heinous crime Erik had committed.

'I wish I could be as sure as you, Antoinette...'

* * *

Lucie's eyes opened slowly. Dim, foggy sunlight drifted in through the window, illuminating the bedroom. Memories surged back, and her cheeks pinkened, hardly able to believe what she had just done. She turned her head to the side, only to find Erik had long risen, and she was alone. Giving out a long sigh, she sat up, modestly pulling the sheets up to cover herself even though there was nobody in the room. How could she ever face him now?

Quickly, Lucie dressed, noticing with pleasant surprise that her scattered articles of clothing had been bashfully gathered and placed in a neat pile on a chair. Once fully clothed, she returned the favour and made the bed before silently leaving the room.

Where could Erik be? She wondered what on earth she would say to him, now they had done something so intimate together. What would his reaction be? Would he be warmer towards her? Or would he be shameful of the passion he had shown the previous night? Lucie walked slowly down a long corridor, and down some finely carpeted stairs. The house was oddly empty of decoration in these parts; perhaps Erik did not have the time...she entered the main foyer of the house, and stopped. The interior of the house here was just as strange and beautiful as the exterior. Lucie walked to the middle of the hard wooden floor, and she came to a halt to observe the room. The wallpaper was printed in sombre but sophisticated colours, with elaborate gold designs above the panelling, and graced with small framed paintings, each more exquisite and original than the last. Were they Erik's? Judging by their odd melancholy, it seemed so. The room was very sparsely furnished, but with a lovely rug in the centre of the floor. Looking up, Lucie gazed in wonder at the intricately carved ceiling with its elaborate lamp, golden like the candles that were positioned at different points on the walls. Walking through a door to the left, Lucie entered a sumptuous living room with a scarlet carpet. A luxurious padded couch stood facing the majestic fireplace, its back and elegant legs carved from dark wood. Near it was a matching armchair, reminiscent of the one in her own house. One wall was obscured by a vast bookshelf that rose from floor to ceiling, filled with books of all size, colour and description, and a huge curving window filled the room with soft grey light. Lucie looked around herself. What a beautiful home...! She would like very much to live here...

Lucie paused. The only way she could think of to live here was if she married Erik. But of course, she should not be thinking of marriage yet - it was too soon, far too soon! The man had only just begun to accept her. She bit her lip guiltily. But...it _would_ be nice if he did one day become her husband...who else would she possibly marry?

Seeing that Erik was obviously not in this room, she made to leave, then stopped. There was something outside the window - something large and grey...

Taken by curiosity, Lucie left the house and entered the garden. At first she shivered in the cool morning air, then walked around to the larger part of the garden behind the house, and saw -

Statues.

Hundreds of statues, all dotted around the dark, rolling lawn, among the trees and the ornamental lake. Lucie gasped in awe; she had never seen a sight so beautiful in all her life. Each statue was different - there were men, women, gods, angels, horses, lions, beasts of every description...

These sculpted beings were every bit as strangely beautiful as the statues around the tower, each of them detailed and astoundingly lifelike. Pure wonder descending upon her, Lucie walked slowly up to a statue of a woman. Her arms were lifted gracefully, her legs in a position that suggested she was dancing. She seemed so real that for a second Lucie could almost believe she _was_ a real dancer, merely holding a position, ready to leap from her pedestal at any second and twirl to some lively tune. Lucie turned, and saw a lion rearing, fangs bared at the sky. She marvelled at the beast's shaggy stone mane, the detailed musculature of its body and the gaping jaws. Her attention was diverted once more to a far larger statue further ahead. Erik forgotten, she ran down the dark hill, the wet grass making the hem of her dress damp. The statue she now looked at was a true chef-d'oeuvre, that would have put to shame even the masterpieces of great, famous sculptors. It was of a man in a chariot pulled by horses, but with the horses leaping up and rearing into the air as if they were about to pull the chariot into the sky. The man holding the reins in a vice-like grip could be nothing less than a god, for his proud features showed power and great force as he drove the horses on. Lucie gazed up at the stone horses; their rolling eyes, tossing heads and ruffled manes were identical to those of real horses, and she could only wonder at the pure talent that had carved these creatures of stone. She went about the entire garden of statues, awestruck by each one. There were statues of leaping dancers and animals, wild, furious sculpted warriors and fearsome beasts, but mostly haunting, melancholy statues that filled Lucie with a sense of utter despair just by looking at them. Several statues cowered on the ground or cried with distorted faces. But the one that touched her the most was the statue of a small, curly-haired boy on a plinth. The statue was a short one, only coming to her waist, and although the small boy's face was the meaning of perfection, his eyes, raised to the sky, were full of such a dreadful sadness that it pulled at Lucie's heart terribly. She looked down at the tiny inscription on the statue's plinth. _Adrien_, it said. _Il retient ses larmes_. He holds back his tears? This confused Lucie, but of course, it was one of Erik's cryptic messages, so it would naturally not make much sense to her. Why had he named this statue? Perhaps he felt affinity with it? Perhaps it mirrored the sadness he felt, as a boy, to be cast out from the rest of the world? Tearing herself away from the statue named Adrien, she walked towards the lake, gasping at a huge stone dragon that thrust its head from the water. How had he managed to sculpt these in so little time? The man was amazing...

'Lucie?'

She wheeled around, and her heart almost stopped at the sight of Erik himself, standing quite close to her. She had not seen him approaching, and had he not spoken, she would never have noticed his presence at all, so silent he was. Now he wore his mask, but his eyes were still as expressive as ever. She tried to discern his feelings...was he embarrassed? Thankful? It actually seemed as if he was unusually happy. There was a barely perceptible hint of a smile touching his lips, though he seemed a little shameful, too.

'Your statues are beautiful,' Lucie said vehemently, breaking the silence. His smile strengthened, and he gazed out at the multitude vaguely. 'They are a form of solace,' he said quietly.

She sighed and approached him gently, careful not to startle him. She looked up into his face, and frowned slightly. 'Why do you wear your mask? You know it does not matter to me what you look like -'

Erik looked away. 'I feel dreadfully exposed without it,' he confessed, and then turned to face her again as she neared him even more, slowly enfolding him in her arms. She rested the side of her face against his chest, breathing in his unusual scent that was now rather pleasant to her. His thin arms moved awkwardly, unsure what to do, but he appeared to secretly savour this embrace, having experienced so few in his lifetime.

'I love you, Erik,' Lucie whispered, feeling him shiver at these new words. His own mouth opened, but no sound came out. 'I...' he began, lost for words. 'I...oh, Lucie, I _cannot_ love! There is nothing left here, you understand...' He put a hand above his heart. 'Nothing left at all...it is shattered and burnt and never to beat again!'

'That's not true,' she argued gently. 'See - I can hear it beating even now.'

Erik drew away with a derisive snort, full of contempt. 'What you are hearing, my dear, is the sound of a useless organ wearisomely forcing the blood through my sorry veins,' he corrected her. 'Nothing more than that.'

Lucie sighed. 'I know you have been hurt, Erik...I want to help you recover from it, even though you will not tell me -'

'The past is the past! There is no more to say of it,' Erik interrupted sharply. Lucie gave him a slight frown.

'I would have thought you would have more trust in me,' she said coldly. 'Especially after -'

'Do not use my actions against me!' he snarled, suddenly very close. 'I...do not...' His words failed the more he watched Lucie's calm, cold expression - the expression even his formidable temper could not change. He gave an irritated sigh of defeat, eyes still fixed on her. The silence stretched on until she raised a hand to touch the side of his mask, feeling its odd coolness. His eyes closed, and he unconsciously moved forwards, pulled by the gentleness he was so unused to. Tentatively, Lucie's lips touched his, and his eyelids fluttered open, his left hand hesitantly rising to cup her cheek. He regarded her, eyes hooded with the sudden desire to experience everything that he had been deprived of, to acquaint himself with this new, delectably unfamiliar practice. Skin burning with this blazing need, he whispered hypnotically: '_Come...come indoors..._'

* * *

Lucie lay prone once more, dizzy and disorientated, her face flushed and warm. The faint teeth-marks on her shoulder and throat still stung slightly, evidence of the fervency Erik had shown near the end. She had just returned from a blissful and rather enlightening eternity in his arms, responding whole-heartedly to his various ministrations. He had seemed to want to know everything about this at once, taking his time until he could bear it no longer. Now he lay beside her, languid and unclothed beneath the sheet, his strange eyes fixed on the ceiling with a more or less content expression on his bared face. Lucie wondered what he was thinking, but knew she would never be able to penetrate his mind. He seemed relaxed and vaguely happy, though...

She watched him, her eyes darkening slightly with sorrow. Even though he appeared to have finally let her past his icy defences, she knew that a part of him was still with the woman he had loved. She did not know her name, nor how she had met Erik, but she knew that this woman had affected him deeply - so deeply that a part of him was still in love with her. This saddened Lucie, because she wanted to know Erik as a whole person...but then again, he had never truly been a whole person, especially not after the terrible events he had endured. It was fortunate Madame Giry and her father had found him when they did...

Lucie sat up abruptly in shock. Her father! How could she have forgotten.

'What bothers you so, Lucie?' Erik murmured lightly from where he lay, his yellow eyes absent-mindedly tracing the contours of her exposed arm.

'I must go...' she said regretfully. 'Oh, I had completely forgotten - my father must be so worried...!'

'Ah, yes...indeed...' he purred dreamily, watching her detachedly as she hurried to dress. Lucie pulled on her boots, then turned to him. Erik smiled lazily. 'I would accompany you, but I am afraid my legs simply will not carry me. Forgive me if I remain here - I have much to dwell upon, you see...'

Obviously these recent events had more or less confused him, too, and he was telling her in his own odd way. Lucie accepted this, and gingerly walked towards him, unsure what to do.

'Very well...I suppose it is better, after all - it would be awful if those men found you again...' she said, then knelt beside him. He watched her calmly with his golden eyes, his bare, unhealthily white chest rising and falling gently. 'Goodbye, Erik...' She kissed him tenderly, then drew away, leaving him more wondering than before. He appeared almost intoxicated, eyes half-closed and dreamy. His lips curved upwards slightly, the faint lines parenthesizing his mouth becoming deeper.

'Goodbye, Lucie...and I am sure we will meet again,' he murmured softly, and then she left.

* * *

'Lucie!'

Docteur Bayard had been beside himself with worry, even more so after Madame Giry had left. When he was alone, he could not distract himself from the terrible thoughts of what that madman could possibly do to his poor daughter. Yet now, here she was, miraculously unscathed and well.

'Oh, Lucie! Wher_ever_ were you?' he scolded her while embracing her tightly.

'I was in the village,' she said honestly, her tone becoming serious. 'I was going to meet Erik, but he didn't appear. Then I found him lying unconscious in an alleyway - he'd been attacked, papa!'

'Attacked?'

'Yes, and I took him back to his house, where he finally woke,' she continued. 'But when evening came, he was still quite faint, and I did not want to risk him being left helpless, so...'

'Ah, of course,' replied Docteur Bayard. Yes, it all made sense now - of course there was a rational reason as to why Lucie spent an entire night away from home. All that worry for nothing... 'But Lucie...' he said seriously, taking her by the shoulders, '...the man is a _murderer_. It's all over the papers. Erik has killed many people, and even burnt down the Opera house!'

'Papa, please...he has already told me of it himself - and I know that those murders were purely in his own defence,' she told him. 'He is not the man you think he is...'

Bayard sighed, watching her. 'I'm just glad you're safe at home...' he said, embracing her once more, then she smiled back.

'If you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest a bit now,' she said, and she kissed him reassuringly on the cheek before going upstairs. As she passed him, Bayard noticed a dull-red blemish - almost like a set of indentations - at the base of her neck, partially hidden by her shawl. He made no remark, but his features darkened. The world was becoming very strange indeed...first he had found out that the man who had been so weakened and helpless was an insane murderer, and now Lucie was witholding the truth from him...

Whatever would the next surprise be?

* * *

Erik looked out of a window over his garden of statues, watching the long shadows stretch over the grass. Many things were occupying his mind; a lot had happened during the past two days, and he found himself feeling unusually..._lightened_. His eyes slowly began to focus on the glass of the window itself; reflected in it was a ghostly image of a white mask, worn by the man who had tormented him ever since he had first looked into a mirror. Erik smiled coldly at the man, whose face was blurred and faint in the glass.

'Well, my friend,' he said, 'it seems we have reached some sort of fateful zenith...and I surmise - purely from the fruit of experience, of course - that this can only be followed by some new misfortunes...'

The man in the glass returned the lopsided smile, then turned away and left.

* * *

Mid-January in Paris was still as cold as ever, but with the promise of spring in a few months keeping the citizens optimistically tramping through the icy streets. However, it was an entirely different motive that fuelled Paris's gendarmes in this frozen month.

The Phantom had escaped them on one event, killing a man, kidnapping a young woman and burning down the Opera house in the process, which had greatly damaged the gendarmes' reputation. To have a man evade them was one thing, but having him commit several terrible crimes under their noses was even worse. This gave them an even greater incentive to finally capture this Phantom once and for all, whether it be through execution or arrest.

The fact that they now had his name was proving to be very much in their favour; they had now localised the small village that he supposedly lived near. The galleries of fine art that had posted letters of gratitude to the man knew the name of the village, and this helped the gendarmes to no end. So, one evening, a whole group of gendarmes made their way out of Paris and into that very village.

* * *

The local people stared at them as they marched past; they looked so grand and important, with their thick moustaches and fine uniforms shining with polished buttons. The rifles they carried also did not go unnoticed, which made the villagers even more eager to help them.

'D'Amecourt, you say?' said the local patissier. 'I believe his house is somewhere in the forest...I see him walking past, sometimes, when I'm closing my shop...bit of an odd character, he is...'

This was all the information the gendarmes needed. Wielding their arms, they left the town, went up the hill, and marched through the forest, disturbing the peaceful wildlife as they carried resolutely on towards the tall iron spike they could see emerging above the treetops. Their determination was at its peak; today, they were sure, d'Amecourt would finally be captured.

* * *

Once they had finally reached the house, the gate was roughly forced open, and the men poured through, marching straight to the door. As there was no answer after they knocked sternly upon it, the door was soon broken down.

'You, search upstairs...we will take this floor,' ordered the leader, and, quickly and courageously, they parted, and the first group entered the main room, pointing their rifles at each shadowed corner. But soon they noticed that the room was empty, and so they moved to the next room, and the next, and the next...

Each room was methodically searched in quick succession, but there was no sign of the man. Disappointed but not discouraged, the leader of the gendarmes shouted up the stairs: 'Have you found anything?'

'Yes, sir - yes, we have!'

The gendarmes downstairs hurriedly sprinted up to the second floor, and burst into one of the upper rooms, rifles poised at the ready -

The second group of policemen were standing around a section of the wall. When the leader entered, one of the gendarmes turned around. 'We have found a note, sir...'

'A _note_? Let me see it.'

The leader marched forwards, angry at having been misled, and grabbed the small piece of paper that was neatly pinned to the wall. Upon it, in angular, flowing black ink, there read:

"_Mes chers messieurs, I have heard of your noble and courageous intentions concerning myself, and it is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to concede to them. You see, I have been making quite a living for myself; and so, I am afraid I must deny the people of Paris the sublime pleasure of seeing me caught, for I have other affairs to attend to within the city. Forgive me for wasting your time, if you have spent a fair amount of it in searching for my home. Your ever-obdt. servant, E.A (or "O.G", if you prefer it)_"

The leading gendarme spluttered at the man's sheer audacity. The note was so polite and courteous it was almost offensively mocking. They would not stand for this!

'We must return to Paris, immediately!' he shouted.

* * *

Corporale Arceneau stood at his usual station near the river Seine, looking up at the dark sky. It was still winter, so night fell extremely quickly. He did not enjoy being on duty during the wintry nights, for in the cold his feet often became so numb he could barely walk. Tonight was such a night, the icy air chilling his fingers as they clutched the rifle he held. Orders had been given to arm each and every man stationed throughout Paris, for everybody was determined to finally catch the infamous Phantom.

For hours Arceneau had stood here, staring at the same brick walls, walking in the same circles to warm himself. Slivers of ice were forming in his thick moustache, but as he was a proud gendarme, he did not let his discomfort show. He only longed to get back to bed and -

A dark shadow drifted along the street before him. Arceneau sprang into action, running forwards, hoping that it was not just another beggar. One of the gendarmes had once made that very mistake, almost shooting the poor man in his conviction. The tall, black-cloaked figure swept onwards, towards the darker alleyways, and Arceneau was about to give up and go back to his station, when the figure turned...revealing a stark white mask.

Arceneau seized hold of his bell and rang it loudly, summoning the other gendarmes in the area. They arrived seconds later, puffing and panting, rifles at the ready.

'I have seen him!' Arceneau cried, taking to his heels. 'He went this way!'

'Are you certain?' a fellow gendarme asked, following him as all four of them ran. Feet slipping on the ice, the policemen rounded a corner, and saw, to their extreme surprise, the edge of a cloak disappearing into a smaller alley. 'This way!' shouted Arceneau, and their boots thudded even harder on the ground as they ran as fast as they possibly could. As one, the four gendarmes leapt into the alley, rifles aimed and ready. However, they found it was completely empty.

'We saw him enter...he is here!' one said determinedly. The alley was narrow and short, and the other end of it was not open to another street, but was barred by a low wall. On the other side of the low wall was a long drop into the Seine, so there was no way the man could have taken that route. Arceneau looked down and saw the thin layer of disturbed snow. 'Yes...yes, he is here.'

A gendarme held his rifle at the ready. 'Erik d'Amecourt, you are under arrest for multiple crimes you have committed. If you do not surrender, we shall be forced to open fire!'

There was ringing silence at these brave words, and then, a melodious, disembodied voice intoned mockingly around them: '_You wish to arrest a ghost, messieurs?_' Several of the less-experienced gendarmes jumped, and they all wildly whirled around, but could not find the source of the voice. Round and round they turned, yet still there was no sign of the dark figure. The shadows enveloped them, and the lack of moonlight did not aid them at all. The gendarmes grew desperate and furious.

'Show yourself!'

The voice replied in a sing-song tone: '_Mais me voilà, me voilà, messieurs, ne me voyez-vous pas?_ _But here I am, here I am, can you not see me?_' The voice continued to taunt them, repeating '_Me voilà!_' from different locations, disorientating the gendarmes as they frantically turned and whirled about, finally crashing into each other in confusion. When this happened, a vibrant, glorious laugh began to rise all around them, echoing through the night, rising to hysterical heights as the gendarmes reddened with exertion and frustration. The Phantom was playing his games once more, the games that only he could enjoy. Throwing his voice, vanishing into shadow...the gendarmes were almost at their wits' end.

And then, as if by miracle, the clouds shifted and the moon shone.

Silvery light poured down the roofs on either side of the alley, flooding into it. All of the shadows fled immediately; all, that is, but one. A tall, dark shape stood on the low wall, illuminated by the moonlight.

Arceneau reacted faster than he ever had in his life. Without even stopping to think, he raised his rifle, aimed, and fired.

The bang rang out for miles around, echoing from the walls of houses. The Phantom's long back curved suddenly, dark, hot drops of blood spraying out behind him as his black-booted heels slipped on the low stone wall. Then, he fell backwards, disappearing into the gloom.

The gendarmes rushed forwards, leaning over the wall. 'He's dead!'

'Well shot, Arceneau, well shot!'

'Straight through the stomach -'

'I can't see him!' yelled one, squinting down at the rushing darkness of the water below. 'Where is he?'

'The river must have taken him,' said Arceneau, shaking slightly. He could hardly believe what had just happened. _He had shot the infamous Opera Ghost...he had killed him...the Phantom was dead_!

'Look...' one of the gendarmes leant further over the wall, and picked up a black hat that had been caught on the stiff branches of a climbing plant. Its brim shone slightly with blood. Presumably it had been caught on the branch before the Phantom had fallen, the copious amounts of blood that had spilled from the gunshot-wound having fallen onto it.

'All that remains of him...it will do for solid proof,' Arceneau said, voice still quivering. 'We must inform everybody.'

* * *

Docteur Bayard descended the stairs. It was a fine morning, and he was not due to go out to work for another day yet. He was greatly pleased that he had his daughter back, even though he was so worried about the murderer, Erik...

'Good morning, Lucie!' he said to his daughter merrily. She was sitting at the breakfast table, slightly hunched over with tiredness. 'What a lovely bright day, eh? Quite unusual for January - Lucie?' He frowned as she did not answer, then looked back at her. His face grew grave as he saw her shoulders shaking. 'Lucie - whatever is the matter?'

Bayard arrived beside her, and saw now that she was not hunched over with tiredness, but with anguish. Her hand was clamped over her mouth, and tears were pouring down her face, dripping from her chin onto the table. In front of her was a newspaper, that bore, on its front page, the terrible, triumphant words: "LE FANTOME N'EST PLUS!" Beneath the title was an entire article about the death of none other than Erik d'Amecourt. All of the details were provided - how the gendarmes found his house empty, how the other gendarmes chased him through the city...how the now-famous Corporale Arceneau fired that one lucky shot that had not only pierced straight through the man's stomach, but had sent him tumbling backwards to his doom. His body had apparently been carried off by the river, and although it was being searched for, nobody had yet found it. However, it was entirely certain he was well and truly dead; even if he had somehow survived the fatal gunshot-wound and the long drop into the river, he would have been quickly drowned.

'Oh, Lucie...how terrible...' Bayard was also struck by this. He had never thought they would actually _kill_ the man...The sobs that Lucie had been holding back suddenly poured from her, wracking her entire body.

'Th-they _killed_ him! _Ils l'ont tué, massacré..._! Oh, papa!' she wailed, letting her father hold her. She could barely believe it, but one thing she knew for certain now was that she would never see him again, never comfort him, never hold him, never tell him about...about...

Her tears consumed her, drowning her in black misery, a huge emptiness suddenly inside her heart...the place Erik had once filled. It was all her fault...she should have stayed with him, made sure he was safe...perhaps he had been so devastated by the intimacy of what they had done together that he had not been in his right mind, recklessly going out into a city that thirsted for his blood...it was all her fault! He sobbed into her father's waistcoat, wondering why, why, _why_...after all that had happened...

* * *

A long, miserable week passed. Lucie would not leave the house, not even for a moment; how could she, with all of those people actually _celebrating_ the death of her loved one? For days on end she cried, knowing that for the entire length of her life she would never again get another glimpse of Erik. She would never see that rare smile, those intelligent, glittering yellow eyes behind the mask...

By day, memories of Erik haunted her thoughts. By night, he haunted her dreams, always out of reach, and in her nightmares all she saw was the bullet, the shower of blood, the body toppling backwards to be lost for ever in the surging waters of the Seine...

One evening, just over a week following Erik's death, there was a knock at the door. As the Docteur was out, Lucie was forced to open it; she had been tempted to not bother, but it could have been somebody important...She swung it open, and gasped.

On the threshold stood a dark-cloaked figure, rain dripping from the dark garments, face obscured by the shadows. Lucie's heart gave a painful throb of shock and hope - but then the figure spoke. 'Lucie?' The voice was far too young, to high...it did not possess the almost seraphic vibrance and melody that she so longed to hear but knew she never would. Lucie stared, dejected but quite surprised.

'Théodore?'

'Oh, Lucie, I heard about Erik...I read in the newspaper...it's awful...' Théodore said sadly, stepping into the light. Lucie bowed her head, then said: 'Come in...come in.'

Théodore swept off his soaking-wet cloak, hanging it on the brass coathook, and then walked into the living room, where Lucie was stoking the fire. She motioned for him to sit, and then she sat opposite him.

'It took me quite a while to find you...' he admitted. 'But here I am, anyway.' He gave a deep, heavy sigh, staring into the fire, his auburn wavy locks still plastered to his head from the rain. 'I can still hardly believe it...he seemed like such a nice chap, once you got to know him - I knew there was something..._dark_ about him, but I never thought he would have _killed_ people...'

'It was not his fault he was a killer,' Lucie told him sadly. 'He only killed in defence...and I suppose he thought differently to other people, too...'

'I always wondered who he was,' mused Théodore, frowning thoughtfully. 'I knew beneath that mask was his real identity - and it seems that identity was that of the Opera Ghost, as they said -'

'No, Théodore,' Lucie corrected him softly. 'Erik did not wear a mask to hide who he was...he had a sort of...deformity, you see.'

'A deformity?' This appeared to shock Théodore.

'Yes,' she said. 'He had no nose, and his skin was so papery and thin, his bones so prominent...his features were very skull-like, and that was what made everybody hate and fear him so much.' Théodore looked haunted and shaken by this news. 'It was because of his own face that Erik was so reclusive and...odd,' she finished.

Théodore shook his head, awestruck. 'I never knew...to think I _lived_ with him, yet never knew...' He looked up at her. 'And have you seen his face?'

Lucie looked at the floor, and nodded silently. Théodore ran his hands through his hair, the moisture glistening on his fingers now. 'So, technically speaking, Erik was killed because of what he _looked_ like?'

'Yes,' said Lucie. 'He was hunted for the murders he committed, but he would never have committed those murders had people not shunned him all his life for his appearance.'

'Terrible...terrible...' Théodore looked very miserable indeed. 'And we hardly knew him at all -'

Lucie was unable to take it any longer. '_I_ knew him!' she cried as the tears began to flood once more. 'I knew him, better than even Madame Giry knew him! You can't imagine the pain he was in...how _long_ it took for him to stop hiding...Erik and I _understood_ one another!' Théodore was shocked as she continued to shout at him before her sobs took over her speech and she put her face in her hands, shoulders trembling violently.

'I'm sorry,' he said gently, leaving his seat to kneel beside her. 'Please forgive me...I thought he was distant with _everyone_...' Suddenly, something seemed to come to him, and he frowned slightly. 'Lucie...you and Erik...did you...were you...?'

She nodded vehemently, and wailed: 'Yes! Yes! I loved him! And he was _so close_ to loving me too...and then...then...those gendarmes...!' She was unable to finish her phrase.

'Oh, Lucie...' Théodore sighed. 'I'm so sorry. I know how difficult it was to communicate with him properly...' He put a hand over hers tenderly and comfortingly, but Lucie was inconsolable.

'I wanted to _marry_ him! I actually wanted to stay with him all my life - and he never got the chance to believe me! They killed him before he could even realise that I was telling him the truth!' she wept. 'And the worst thing...the worst thing...'

'What?' Théodore prompted her, face grave and concerned as he held her hand. She sobbed into her other hand, tears rolling down her cheeks, her face wet with misery.

'I...I...' She abruptly gave a wail of anguish: '_I think I am with child_!'

* * *

February dawned cold and windy. Soon, it would be a month since Erik's dreadful demise; the papers still held no news of anybody finding a body in the Seine, and it was now certain that the body had either sunk to the bottom of the river or had been carried far, far away.

Lucie sat in her bedroom, her hand gingerly resting on her abdomen, a letter held in her other hand as she stared from the window. Although there was no visible difference to the appearance of her body, she _knew_, in an unexplainable way, that there was some quiet form of life hiding inside her, growing slowly and steadily. The nausea she had felt in the mornings...the constant weariness...her father thought it was due to her misery, but Lucie knew better. She moved her hand gently over the stomach that still seemed completely normal, hardly able to believe that somewhere beneath her hand, a strange creature that was half Erik and half herself was concealed, gathering size at a ponderous pace. With a sigh, Lucie lay back upon her bed, now twiddling absently with the lace trimmings of her dress. It was oddly uplifting, the knowledge that a part of Erik still remained, that his brilliance was not completely lost to the world...

In the days following her knowledge of Erik's death, Lucie had been fully inclined to end herself, even along with the fatherless child she carried. She had been convinced that there was nothing left in the world for her, and that her child would know the same fate as she had - the fate of having only one parent, one parent who still mourned the loss of the other. However, now she realised that such an action would be terrible and selfish; this child was _Erik's_...it had a direct connection to him, and held within it the genius of its father. Such glorious virtue should be nurtured, not destroyed. This child was the only piece of Erik's wondrous talent that remained in this world. If it died, Erik would truly be gone, never to be heard of again...This child was the living connection between Lucie, lying in her dim bedroom, and Erik, lost in the land of the dead. It was something precious.

Now, she had taken to loosening her corsets, to be safe. However, she did not know for how long she would be able to hide the secret of her and Erik's child from her father...she knew very well that her stomach would grow, and, being an experienced doctor, Bayard would notice it very quickly. Lucie looked down at the letter she held in her hand. But dear, kind Théodore had suggested a solution to that...a solution so simple, but so hard to decide upon...

The poor man had apparently been thinking about her a lot, after they had first met as well as after the fire that had consumed the apartment. She had been completely oblivious to this, so wrapped up in her thoughts of Erik she was...Théodore had searched for her, but had never managed to find her house. It was only after the news of Erik's death had arrived that he had finally found where she lived. And now he had sent her this letter...this long, heartfelt letter confessing that even though he knew she was still in pain from her loss, he cared for her very much and would be very happy indeed if she would be his wife. He had told her of the manor house he had saved up for and now lived in, of his parents' acceptance of him and their hefty allowance, of the future he could provide for the child that would be born within the year, of the love he would give her and the baby, no matter what it looked like -

Lucie frowned. Of course, Théodore had been right to wonder whether Erik's child would inherit the deformity...was there really so much chance of his fearsome features being passed on? Her look of worry changed to a look of determination. She would love the child unconditionally - after all, she had loved Erik...she would not shun this little one as Erik had been shunned. She looked back at the letter. Oh, it was so full of sweet, honest words...it was not that she doubted Théodore's truthfulness - and it was true, she _did_ have a small soft spot for him - but how could she marry anyone after losing Erik? All she wanted to do was stay in her bedroom forever and not come out...how could she ever love again, let alone _marry_...?

Lucie sat up suddenly in shock. She realised abruptly that she was behaving in a particular way...a particular way she had seen in Erik himself. She recalled her own frustration whenever he would turn away from her, reject her affections - she remembered how long it had taken her to convince him to move on from the one he had lost, too...She imagined this must be exactly the way Théodore felt, now that she was playing the heartbroken Erik. Crying and wallowing in solitude would not help her...it could only make things far worse than they already were. Lucie put a hand over her belly once more. She wanted her child to have a future, and Théodore was more than willing to provide it. Perhaps she _should_ move on...perhaps she _should_ rise from this valley of despair...

Getting up from her bed, Lucie got some paper, a pen and some ink, then began to write a letter, copying out the address Théodore had given her. It was about time that she lived...

* * *

The home of the statues stood cold and silent in the forest. The statues around the tower gazed out still, their faces sad, hands reaching out for their lost master. They gazed out North, South, East, West, and more directions in between...but none could see him. In the glorious garden where the stone figures had long stopped growing, weeds thrived instead. Statues stood silent, waiting wordlessly for the hand that had carved them to return. The dragon in the lake was poised, also waiting, the icy water rippling about its scaly neck. The other statues further down the garden seemed to have paused in their weeping, as if their tears had stopped long enough for them to try and listen for the sound of a black cloak swishing on the grass, or of a pair of boots walking up the path. However, the sound never came, so they continued to wait, frozen. Only one solitary statue seemed to know that their master was gone forever; the small stone boy stared up sadly into the heavens, the rain that fell from the grey clouds above wetting his eyes and running in large droplets down his thin cheeks. Now, with the virtuoso dead, Adrien did not hold back his tears.

* * *

_Several months later..._

There was a knock at Docteur Bayard's door. He opened it, and saw a harried-looking young man with wavy auburn hair standing on the doorstep. 'Théodore! What a surprise! Do come in...'

Théodore entered, looking rather smart in his new white shirt, his jacket folded over one arm. He appeared flustered about something, but was nevertheless smiling as he was ushered onto the couch. 'Sit down, sit down...would you care for a drink? It is rather warm outside...'

'Yes, a drink would be welcome...but nothing too strong,' Théodore said thankfully, and Bayard poured him one and handed it to him.

'So,' said the Docteur, merrily sipping his own, 'How is Lucie? I trust she is treating her husband well?' Théodore smiled. 'Yes, indeed,' he replied. 'Though -'

'And the baby? Last time I saw her, she was getting quite round...' Bayard said eagerly.

'Yes, she is even bigger now -'

'Hah! She must be a sight to see,' laughed the Docteur jovially. 'To think that I am soon to become a grandfather...goodness, I feel so old already...'

'Actually, it _is_ about the child, that I have come to talk to you, Victor,' Théodore said hurriedly, before he could be cut off again. However, Docteur Bayard was listening, frowning at the serious note in his son-in-law's voice.

'Go on,' he said.

Théodore took a deep breath, then let it out again with a sigh. 'Lucie...did not wish to tell you - but I thought that you simply _had_ to know...in case...in case the child was born with...certain _particularities_...'

Docteur Bayard now looked concerned and grave, the bright summery sunlight sparkling from the frames of his glasses as he leant forwards. 'What is it?'

The young man looked uncomfortable. 'Well, er...you see...the child is not mine.' Bayard watched him calmly, and Théodore returned his gaze gingerly, hoping he had not gotten his beloved wife into trouble. After a short moment of silence, Bayard nodded.

'Ah...the child is Erik's, am I right?'

Théodore sighed. 'It would appear so,' he said quietly. Bayard nodded again, his expression hard to discern, then, to Théodore's surprise, he smiled.

'Do not look so ashamed,' he said. 'I had long ago guessed that perhaps Erik and Lucie were closer than I thought. I did wonder about the child, too...there is nothing to fret about. I'm sure the baby will be in _perfect_ condition...Erik's affliction is most probably not hereditary, as I had observed him quite closely during his stay here. Do not worry yourself so...' Théodore was now noticeably more relaxed. 'Anyway...how is the redecoration of your drawing room going? Lucie told me of it in her last letter...'

They began to talk more freely now, Théodore appearing far more comfortable. He had feared this conversation, but now he knew that Bayard had suspected this all along. As they conversed of houses and other domestic matters, he found a weight lifted, and he began to think about his wife at home...

* * *

More months passed. Lucie and Théodore became inseparable, and were fully used to living together. Lucie had at first been intimidated by the large manor house, but now she found her way through it quickly and easily. When Théodore had returned to his family after the fire, he had been surprised to find that they were more than happy to see him again, and, hearing of his fortune, had helped him purchase this very manor house. This was very fortunate indeed, and Théodore was very glad that he had a family once more.

Lucie found she enjoyed married life; she was never alone, and Théodore would always make sure that she was relaxed and comfortable, especially in her final months of pregnancy. The child inside her made her so heavy and awkward that she soon refrained from walking very far throughout the manor, preferring to sit outside in the garden during the summer evenings. Théodore would sit beside her sometimes, and they would talk of anything and everything until the air grew cold and they were forced to retire.

* * *

When October arrived, though, something both dreaded and anticipated came to pass.

One evening, Lucie began to complain of terrible pains, and then she and Théodore realised the baby was well on its way. A frantic Théodore sent out for the midwife, while a maid led Lucie away into the unused spare bedroom. Docteur Bayard was also summoned, as a doctor as well as a family member. When the midwife, Madame Landry, finally arrived, Lucie was already beginning to give birth by herself. The bedroom door had been unceremoniously shut in Théodore's face, blocking him out, and all he could hear was Lucie's cries and sobs of pain, as well as Madame Landry's orders to the maids. He shuddered to think was was happening in there...

Lucie tensed again as the pain ripped through her. It felt as if there was a lump of burning ice lodged within her abdomen, that weakened her with the agony it brought...Shadows appeared at the edge of her vision and her eyes rolled dizzily.

'_Non, non, non_...she must not faint...here, take this...'

A maid arrived next to her at the midwife's orders, and pressed a cool flannel to Lucie's sweltering forehead, bringing her back. 'Don't worry, Madame d'Amecourt, it will soon be over...'

_D'Amecourt_...memories of another by that name came rushing to her, and Lucie's eyes opened wide, her whole frame tensing -

'There! Yes, madame, _continuez comme ça_...it is nearly over...'

Lucie gave a cry, and then the baby left her. The midwife showered her with praise, and Lucie collapsed with relief. It was finished now...the pain was gone, leaving a faint sensation of nausea behind. Were all births really this trying?

'Here he is, madame,' said the midwife, coming over to her with a stirring bundle, freshly washed and weighed. 'You have a son.' Lucie gratefully took the warm, moving creature in her arms, feeling the life swaddled in the soft white blanket. The baby did not cry, but stared about itself with bright, indigo-blue eyes. Then, two things happened at once; Docteur Bayard and Théodore entered the room, and Lucie fainted as she saw the dry, papery flaking skin of the child's face.

* * *

'_Lucie...Lucie, ma chère,_ _reveille-toi_...'

Lucie opened her eyes. She was in her bed, upstairs, and Théodore was kneeling beside her, looking anxious. 'Oh, thank goodness you're awake...you had me so _worried_...'

Memories came back to her and tears began to fall from her eyes. 'Théodore, it's just as I feared! The baby's face...the poor thing has skin just like...like...' Théodore put a hand on hers. 'Lucie, don't worry yourself,' he told her. 'The child may have inherited something from Erik, but your father said that -'

She blanched. 'My father knows?'

'Do not fear, Lucie, he guessed it right from the beginning, and it does not matter to him,' Théodore said consolingly. 'He says that the child's affliction can be easily remedied.'

'Remedied?' Lucie sobbed. 'There was no remedy for -'

'Please, listen to me,' Théodore said softly. 'Erik's skin was aggravated because of the masks he wore, your father said, which made his condition even worse. His face could probably have been saved if it had been treated early on...it was just his nose and eyes that were unchangeable, and that was probably why he went untreated.' Lucie's flow of tears began to dry up, and Théodore smiled encouragingly. 'Your father says that he has an ointment that can help the baby, if it is applied daily.' She relaxed, closing her eyes. So all was not lost after all...with help, her child could have the life Erik had been denied. With help, her child could lose all vestiges of Erik's unfortunate deformity...

The door opened, and Docteur Bayard entered, carrying the baby in his arms, looking slightly worried. His look of concern dissipated, however, when he saw Lucie was awake. 'Oh, my poor dear...look, I have brought you your darling little boy,' said Bayard, passing the child to its mother. 'I have applied some ointment on his skin - I assume Théodore has already told you about it...' Théodore nodded, while Lucie looked down for the second time at the baby in her arms. She wondered why she had fainted earlier; it must have been purely from shock and exhaustion, for the child was not fearsome at all. In fact, the more she looked at him, the more she began to smile as her heart melted. Although the baby's face was smeared with some clear substance that made the skin smooth and oily, she could now clearly see the resemblances he held to his father. Lucie looked at the tiny creature and wonderingly saw Erik's serious mouth, Erik's arching brows, Erik's long fingers...even the baby's tufts of curly, downy hair were a deep, coal-black in colour. She also found herself recognising her own features in the baby - namely the blue, bright eyes...however, there were also features on the child's face that she did not recognise. The high cheekbones and hollow cheeks could only have come from Erik's family, and the straight, regal nose was not one reminiscent of her own. Her child probably bore resemblance to Erik's nameless father, or to how Erik himself would have looked if he had not been cursed with a deformity. Tears filled her eyes; Erik's father or mother must have been quite good-looking, which justified even further the rejection of Erik as a young boy.

'Oh, he's so beautiful,' Lucie wept, gazing at her son. If only there were words to describe how much she treasured this child...

'You haven't named him yet,' Théodore prompted her gently.

'Of course...oh, I haven't been able to think of -' Lucie stopped, her eyes held by the baby in her arms. His blue eyes, that already sparkled with a familiar intelligence, looked up at her earnestly, then flickered to the ceiling, as if trying to memorize everything he saw. There was an odd look almost reminiscent of sadness in the baby's eyes, as if he already knew he had no true father. This look brought back another memory, a memory from long, long ago, it seemed -

'Adrien,' Lucie said, remembering the statue that her son had, for one second, been the spitting image of. 'I like the name Adrien.'

Docteur Bayard smiled, and Théodore said, musingly: 'Adrien d'Amecourt...yes, it sounds quite flowing, indeed...excellent choice.' _D'Amecourt_...thought Lucie for the second time that day. Her son, Adrien, had the same surname as his real father...Lucie smiled at him, and kissed his smooth cheek that was still greasy with ointment. Her life was suddenly so much better, with Adrien in her arms...

* * *

Christine de Chagny sat in the warm, softly lit nursery. It was night, and the large window was dark; the only thing visible outside was the branches of the trees nearest to the house, illuminated by the glow that came from the rooms. She gave a tired but contented sigh as she looked down into the lace-trimmed cradle beside her. The future heir of the Vicomte de Chagny lay inside it, snuffling and grunting as he kicked his little legs actively, pushing the blankets down in the process. Christine smiled fondly at the baby, pulling the blankets back up over him. 'It's time for you to sleep, little one,' she said softly, and began to hum a little tune while she gently rocked the cradle. Raoul had been overjoyed by the arrival of a son, and had been loath to let go of the child. Christine smiled as she recalled his eagerness, then she looked back into the cradle, continuing to hum. Her smile faded slightly as her thoughts wandered; she had heard the news of the Phantom's death, and it had deeply shaken her. However, she knew, as Raoul had said, that the poor man's life had been fraught with pain and misery, and he was probably better off...but what had also shocked her was that he had not died in the Opera House, but had left and actually _prosperred_ in a way, before being killed...

Christine chased the memories away from her mind. Her son was now asleep, his small, round chest rising and falling evenly. Oh, he would grow up to be a fine boy indeed, just like his father...Smiling, Christine got up quietly and made her way across the nursery. As silently as she could, she arrived at the window. For the first few weeks, the young de Chagny child been a very light sleeper, but now that he was a few months old, he did not wake as easily. Nevertheless, she liked to keep as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb the lovely little creature's slumber. Christine reached up to close the curtains -

Outside, in the darkest shadows of the garden, a pair of burning yellow eyes flashed eerily at her, holding her with an intense gaze for a few seconds before disappearing into the gloom.

Christine's mouth opened silently in horror, and she fainted clean away.


	10. Epilogue

_**A/N:**__** Here is a little epilogue to this story...a bit short, but there you have it. About Chapter 9, just to clear things up : Erik was shot straight through the stomach, fell quite a long way off a wall, and got submerged in a fast-running part of the Seine river (and didn't get out again), so I don't think he could be very alive after that. What happened to him was practically impossible to survive…the eyes Christine saw at the end could have just been an owl's or a night animal's…or a ghost's (heh heh heh…). Erik is **_**definitely**_** dead - but there's just that tiny little element of uncertainty in the second-last line that makes you wonder…hmm…I'll leave it to you to decide what Christine really saw. Anyway, thank you to MadLizzy (I'm actually English, not French! I was born in England, grew up in England, and I only moved to France eight years ago (as an extremely reluctant seven-year-old) because of my dad's job (he's an Airbus guy)...But I suppose I didn't really say it in my profile/bio thingy, so it doesn't matter :D…I'm soo so happy you liked it - I thought it went too fast!) and Pertie (Haha, I told you Théodore would make a reappearance ;D! And Erik **_**did**_** die, it's just that it was nice to think that maybe something of him sort of…came back for a few seconds…) for their very early reviews. Humongous thanks also to my other loyal reviewers for all of their encouragement and support!**_

_**So, without further ado, here is the epilogue:**_

* * *

In the middle of a forest, long forgotten for years and years, stood an old house. It was an odd house, not like many others, namely because of the aged, weather-worn statues that stood around its tower, backs covered with moss. The gates of the old house were rusty around the hinges, where years of rain had covered the grey-black metal with a fiercely orange crust, and the curling bars of iron were slightly bent, from where the gate had been forced open once long ago. The two high walls that the gate stood between were covered with ivy and other climbing plants, spiders and forest insects making their homes in the gaps between the bricks. This mass of foliage almost completely obscured the bricks from sight, making it look as if the forest itself had gathered and woven its plants and brittle branches into a natural wall that ringed the house. It was an odd sight indeed...

Past the gates was a white path, now overgrown with the tall grass that grew on either side of it, darkened by the plants that had grown between the pebbles. Down the path was the house itself, the years of neglect making it appear ruined already. Some windows had gone, tiles were missing, and wooden planking was rotten through, hanging off the side of the house dismally. Roof tiles lay smashed on the ground from the high winds that had torn them off, and the forest's creepers had begun to invade through the house's gaping windows. Furniture inside the house's rooms were still visible through the windows, untouched and coated in dust and leaves. Only silence and the seasons lived here, each year bringing more dust, longer weeds...On the other side of the house, however, the forest had almost fully taken over. But still stark-white statues rose from the high grasses, their raised arms entangled with climbing plants, throats strangled with ivy. Now, in the months of spring, some of these plants were in bloom, colouring the garden with bright flowers. It was a strange sight, the beautiful, serene statues tangled in the gaiety of nature, looking as if they had simply grown in the garden like the tall weeds. Some statues were lopsided from roots growing beneath them; others lay dead or broken on the ground from violent autumn winds and summer storms. The garden thrived even though the house did not, for the forest was slowly reclaiming its lost territory.

Through the centre of the garden, there was a path of long grass that had been recently flattened by feet. The path led all the way from the house's gates to the back garden, where it wound about amongst the statues before arriving at the small lake, so covered with pond-weed that it was almost indistinguishable from the greenery that surrounded it. However, the dragon's head that reared from the water stood out from the plants around, its grey stone scales green with weed at the base. Glistening frogs sat on the back of its weathered neck, basking in the sun with their throats ballooning gently.

Standing silently watching them, at the very end of the grassy path he had made, was a handsome young man of about eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, hands in his pockets. His coal-black curls gleamed in the sunlight, and already the sensitive, white skin on the bridge of his nose had begun to redden from being in the sun. His face had always burnt easily, and never lost its stark paleness; his mother had always laughed when he came home sunburnt, saying he looked just like a farmer. The young man's long fingers loosened the top buttons of his shirt, easing the collar from his neck slightly. He had the hands of a musician, a painter, an artist; he had always loved all forms of art and music, and his parents - especially his mother - always praised him whenever he produced a fine piece of work or played a complicated composition on the piano.

Now he had come here, to the hidden garden of statues, to gaze upon the work of his real father...the father he had never known. What talent he saw - what marvel! Beauty surrounded him, a beauty that could not possibly have come from the hands of a man...Although it was sad to see such wonder being claimed by nature, he knew he could not reverse it. This place was better not to be disturbed...the peace here was marvellous, as if he was being welcomed here. The young man stared about him, and then waded through the long grass in a different direction, the startled frogs diving into the lake with soft splashes.

There was one statue Adrien longed to see...one his mother had told him about...she had said it was the spitting image of him as a boy - and probably of his true father, too, in a way. Scratching divertedly at the dry, peeling skin on his nose, Adrien walked on. This would be the last statue he would visit before leaving, for his skin was becoming uncomfortably irritated in this burning sunlight. He gratefully entered the shade of some trees, then peered at the slivers of white he could see through the tall grass. Yes...there ahead of him was a small statue, that could possibly be the one he was looking for...

Adrien's long, thin legs bent as he crouched down and parted the wet grass, feeling the dampness that still remained on the blades from the dew of the cool morning. In front of him, there was indeed a small stone boy, that was reminiscent of himself as a child...uncannily so, in fact. The boy was looking up at the sky that was visible between the tree's branches, just as Adrien's mother had said - and the inscription, too, was there, which made him shiver quite a bit...yet the more he looked, the more he realised that this statue did not seem to entirely fit his mother's nostalgic description. Adrien's clear blue eyes widened and he laughed with surprise as he realised what the difference was:

The statue was _smiling_.

_**The End!**_


End file.
